


A Legacy of Truth: Act II

by Arbryna



Series: A Legacy of Truth [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the spoils she recovered in the Deep Roads, Marian has reclaimed her family's estate and title, but even noble status can't completely protect them from the templars' watchful eyes. Luckily, she's not alone; the past few years in Kirkwall have provided her with a small group of trustworthy friends, something she never expected to find. </p><p>Among them, of course, is Isabela. The pirate hasn't let up in her advances, and Marian's growing feelings for her are anything but helpful when it comes to resisting. As the attraction between them heats up, they find themselves on the trail of a sadistic killer--and his victims all seem to have something in common with Marian herself.</p><p>Can Marian stop him before he strikes too close to home--and keep Isabela from getting too close to her in the process?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Codex Entry:**

**On Confessors, Part Three: On Love**

 

Love—the kind that bards sing about, the kind that fills countless fanciful novels—is a concept foreign to confessors. You see, when the magisters were breeding us for their wars, they discovered something about our power: it is not something we call forth, or pull from the Fade—it is in us, always, held in check only by our own restraint. As a result, all who lay with a confessor, who brings her past the limits of her control, are confessed without fail.

When the time comes that we must reproduce to further our line, a mate is chosen—not for romantic qualities, but for his strength, his health, and for a lack of family ties. It keeps us from being hounded with questions, from being discovered for what we are and handed over to the templars.

Many have tried to fool themselves into thinking they had such a love, with their confessed mate. It is a selfish, artificial kind of love, however; without free will, a man cannot feel the kind of love bards sing about, and while a confessor can enjoy the devotion that comes from confession, she cannot truly love her confessed, for the man he was no longer exists.

Some confessors have developed intense romantic and sexual bonds with one another—we cannot be confessed, after all. These relationships are almost always transitory, however; we must mate to keep our line alive, and once a mate is confessed, he becomes the responsibility of his mistress. Few relationships can survive such a heavy burden.

We must content ourselves with the love of sisterhood, and the love of our daughters. It is enough that we survive.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing she noticed was the smell. Salt, sweat, the rich musk of oiled leather mingled with the sweet sour of whiskey and just a hint of spice. It was a warm scent, familiar, engulfing Marian’s senses.

Slowly, she became aware of other things. The whisper of hair against bare skin, the brush of rough fingertips over the curve of her breasts, then lower. At the moist press of lips to her hipbone, Marian forced her eyes open, propping herself up on her elbows so she could take in the situation.

She was naked—why was she naked? She always wore pajamas to bed, ever since Sandal made the mistake of trying to wake her up and almost fell victim to her power—but that wasn’t the most pressing issue. Of primary concern was the woman currently nestled between her thighs like she belonged there.

Isabela’s lips curled into a heated smirk, amber eyes smoldering with desire. She abandoned her place between Marian’s legs, crawling up to straddle her hips.

“Isabela, what—”

Marian was cut off by the firm press of Isabela’s mouth, soon followed by a languid sweep of her tongue. She opened her mouth more out of shock than acquiescence, but Isabela took advantage all the same, and Marian soon found herself pressed into the mattress, unable to focus on anything but the solid weight on her hips, the softness of breasts crushing against her own, the slick heat of Isabela’s mouth around her tongue.

Maker, Isabela was good at this. She’d always bragged about it, and Marian hadn’t doubted her for a second, but actually experiencing it was something altogether different. She felt as though she were on fire, and each brush of Isabela’s fingers sent jolts of electricity sparking across her skin—and they’d just barely kissed. Why hadn’t they done this before?

The thought stopped Marian cold. She pushed at Isabela’s shoulders, twisting her head to the side to break the kiss. “We can’t.”

“Shh,” Isabela murmured into Marian’s ear. “Of course we can.”

Marian opened her mouth to protest again, managing only a small, needy sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper when Isabela’s lips and teeth found her throat.

She had to stop this. Her control was slipping already, and it wouldn’t take much for her to lose her grip completely. She had held out for three long and agonizing years; to succumb to her desires now, to give in, would make all of that effort and suffering worthless, to say nothing of the irrevocable effect it would have on Isabela. Marian tried once more to push at Isabela’s shoulders, but a hot mouth closed around her breast, and her fingers slid into dark hair instead, pulling closer rather than pushing away.

Isabela’s smirk pressed into Marian’s skin, and she drew back with a teasing nip at the very peak of her breast. “Just lie back, sweet thing.” Her voice was pure sex, thick and smooth like honey. “I promise you’ll enjoy this.”

Shivers raced under Marian’s skin as Isabela’s mouth trailed down her ribs. Fingers teased at her sides, dragging down to rest at her hips, and lips and tongue tripped down her stomach, leaving a trail of damp skin that tightened in the cool air.

There was a reason they couldn’t do this—a crucial one—but she was having trouble keeping it clear in her mind. It hovered before her, getting further away the more she grasped at it. Then sure hands were pressing her knees apart, teeth nipping at the crease of her thigh, and any thought of resistance evaporated under the warmth of Isabela’s breath.

Indeed, thought itself faded into the background, overwhelmed by sensation: the strong, slick heat of Isabela’s tongue; the firm, knowing stroke of skilled fingers; the warm flicker of firelight against the canopy of her bed; the taste of desperate need on Marian’s lips as she gasped and whimpered and moaned. Her nails scraped along Isabela’s scalp, earning a surprised but pleasurable groan, before her hands slipped free of Isabela’s hair to clutch urgently at the sheets. There was something building in her, something powerful and intense, and she was torn somewhere between giddy anticipation and heart-pounding fear.

Finally the feeling could no longer be contained; it swelled inside her, bursting free with concussive force, seeming to shake the very air around them.

As she collapsed back against the pillows, throbbing and spent, her senses came back to her with sickening clarity. She remembered now what she’d managed to forget in the heat of passion, and a horrific churning began in her stomach. What had she done?

Chancing a look down at Isabela, Marian felt her heart break at the love and devotion shining clear in amber eyes.

“Command me, Mistr—”

 

“No!” Marian gasped, jerking awake. Her chest felt heavy, and tears stung at her eyes. She sat up, and a frantic look around the room told her that she was very much alone. The fire had burned down long ago, now mere glowing embers in the hearth; even still, sweat dampened the collar of her sleeping gown. 

It had felt so real. Her heart still pounded in her chest, matching the rhythm of the throbbing between her legs. It wasn’t the first time she’d had the dream, but it never got any less disturbing. 

Three years had done little to quell the flutter of her breath or the hot flush of her cheeks whenever Isabela was around—if anything, it had gotten worse. What had started as a powerful yet superficial attraction had evolved into something that Marian hardly dared to name. The time for keeping her distance had passed long ago, if she’d ever truly had a chance to begin with; now, the thought of cutting Isabela out of her life was as painful as the wrenching fear of letting her get too close. 

With a sigh, Marian fell heavily back onto her pillows, staring up into the near-darkness. The sun had yet to rise, and there were hours yet before she would be forced to wake, but sleep had never seemed so far away.

***

The entryway of the estate seemed to swallow Aveline as she approached the imposing front door. She knew what she’d find inside: a spacious foyer with padded benches on either side, a grand front room with stairs leading up to the bedrooms on the second floor, with a balcony overlooking the entrance.

Gamlen’s place in Lowtown could have fit in the front room with space to spare. No matter how many times Aveline visited the Hawke estate, she still couldn’t help but marvel at the vast difference from the tiny hovel that Hawke used to call home. 

Hawke. Aveline chuckled softly to herself. She’d always been Marian to her, but shortly after they’d all met Varric, the dwarf had proclaimed that Hawke sounded much more worthy of heroic stories. Aveline had tried to resist—she was close with all three Hawkes, after all—but with everyone else using the nickname, eventually it just stuck. By now Aveline had to use it if she wanted anyone in town to know who she was talking about. 

The name was on a lot of people’s lips, too. Aveline was happy for her friend’s success, certainly, but there were days it was more of a headache than anything. 

Her knock was answered promptly, and the door swung open to see Bodahn Feddic’s smiling face. 

“Hello, Guard-Captain,” he greeted, opening the door wider to wave her in. “Lovely to see you as always. You’re, uh—” He clasped his hands nervously in front of him. “—not here on official business, I hope?”

Aveline chuckled. “Nothing you need to worry about, Bodahn,” she assured him. It had been a few weeks since she’d been called to the Hawke residence to investigate complaints of explosions and foul-smelling smoke. “Sandal keeping out of trouble?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Bodahn nodded. “At least as far as I can tell. Can’t keep my eye on him all the time. You know how it is.”

“Indeed,” Aveline replied. There were a few people in particular she could think of that would be better off in one of her cells under constant supervision—a certain Rivaini pirate being one of them.

“I, uh, I hate to disappoint you,” Bodahn went on, “but Mistress Leandra is out shopping, and I’m afraid Messere Hawke hasn’t risen for the day quite yet.”

“It’s all right, Bodahn.” Hawke’s groggy voice carried over the balcony, where she was leaning against the banister. She gave Aveline a halfhearted attempt at a smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Aveline?”

“Flames, Hawke, you look terrible.” Aveline took in the messy hair, the bleary eyes, the sunken cheeks. 

“Thanks,” Hawke replied with an attempt at a dashing grin. She sighed, holding onto the banister as she made her way down the stairs. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“With how busy all of Kirkwall’s been keeping you, I’d expect you to sleep like a rock,” Aveline said, leaning against one of the pillars in the front room. 

Hawke chuckled as she descended the last stair, taking a few steps forward to lean against the pillar across from Aveline. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? Now the viscount’s even getting me all mixed up in this Qunari business. I had hoped that all this work would stop once I got myself a fancy house and title,” she complained with a wry smile.

“You should know better than that,” Aveline chided, mirroring Hawke’s smile with one of her own. “The more important you are, the less freedom you have. That’s how it works.”

A somber expression dawned on Hawke’s face, and she was silent for a moment. “I’ve got more freedom than some,” she said softly, guilt tinging her voice.

Bethany. Flames, was Hawke still blaming herself for that? There was nothing any of them could have done, save for taking Bethany along into the Deep Roads and risking her life to any of the various dangers they’d faced down there. At least she was safe in the Circle, so long as no one discovered her more…unique abilities. 

“Have you been by to see her lately?” Aveline asked gently.

Hawke shook her head, briefly looking down at the floor. “It’s been a while,” she said. “Things have been so hectic. I’ll have to go visit again soon.” 

“She’ll be glad to see you,” Aveline said. “I pop in when I can—being Guard Captain has its advantages, the templars hardly bat an eye at me. She always asks about you, about how you’re doing.”

A heavy sigh escaped Hawke’s lips as she crossed her arms over her ribs. “I’ve been better,” she admitted. “Too much time in my own head, I think.”

“Well, I’ve got something that can help with that,” Aveline said, thinking of her latest headache. “You remember Emeric?”

“The templar?” Hawke straightened, looking much more awake than she had a moment before. 

“That’s the one,” Aveline grumbled. “He wants your help, and some sort of official sanction for his ‘investigation’.”

Hawke cocked her head. “I didn’t think he’d still be at it. Those women were killed years ago.” 

Aveline rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, he’s convinced that every random murder in the past few years is connected to them, and he won’t be quiet.”

“Have there been more?” Hawke asked after a moment. There was a troubled look in her eyes. “More…women?”

More confessors. Aveline heard the word as clearly as if it had been spoken. She sighed. “We don’t even know if that was the motive last time, Hawke,” she reminded her. “Kirkwall isn’t the safest place. That doesn’t mean everything terrible is related. There’s no sense to that—can’t be.”

“Still, it’s got to be worth investigating,” Hawke pressed. 

“And I have. He even convinced one of my lieutenants to raid the DuPuis mansion—nothing there,” Aveline huffed. “You wouldn’t believe how much ass I had to kiss after that. Bloody hobbyist constable. Why can’t he spend his declining years building a boat or something?”

Hawke laughed, but her brow was still tight, her eyes still swimming with thoughts. “I seem to recall he had some good leads,” she said stubbornly.

Aveline shook her head. “Then you won’t mind chasing his threads,” she said. “If it leads somewhere, I’ll pick it up. Right now, he’s just distracting my men.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Hawke promised. “He’s at the Gallows, I presume?”

Nodding, Aveline pushed away from the pillar. “Right,” she confirmed. “Thanks Hawke. I’ll try not to make a habit of this.”

“Oh please, Aveline,” Hawke said, her smile brightening affectionately. “You know I live to do your job for you.” 

“Very funny,” Aveline retorted. She turned around to head for the exit, then looked over her shoulder. “And take a bath, or run a comb through your hair or something. You really do look awful.”

She didn’t need to turn around to see the playful glare Hawke shot in her direction. As she stepped back out into Hightown, she let out a sigh of relief. That was one less headache for her.


	3. Chapter 3

The mansion of Gascard DuPuis was unsettlingly dark and still. The braziers along the walls burned low, barely illuminating the front room, and the air seemed charged with an otherworldly energy. Out of the corner of her eye, Marian saw Varric reach up to his shoulder, his fingers curling around Bianca's stock. He felt it too.

Isabela had made quick work of the locks on the front door, with less protest than usual from Aveline. Ordinarily the guard captain would made scathing remarks about the appropriateness of certain skills, but tonight she had only managed a disapproving huff. Whether DuPuis was their man or not, it was certain that this night would be anything but uneventful. 

Aveline had been resistant to the idea of raiding the mansion for a second time; her men had searched the place from top to bottom, she'd told Marian, and come up empty-handed. Marian had pressed, though, and Aveline had relented, only on the condition that it was completely off the books. She was only coming along as a friend, to keep Marian out of trouble with the law. As close as they were, Marian knew that Aveline wouldn't hesitate to hold her accountable if charges were brought against her; there would be no playing favorites under Guard Captain Aveline's watch. 

For a moment, it appeared that Aveline might have been right, that this would be another futile investigation. Shortly after Marian took her first steps into the front room, however, the eerie calm permeating the room shattered as a half-dozen shades popped into existence.

By now, Marian had fought her fair share of Fade creatures, as had her companions; the shades posed no real threat and were quickly dispatched. The rage demon that followed was slightly more of a challenge, but with the four of them taking it on it never really stood a chance. Of greater concern were the implications of the creatures' presence. Seldom were these things encountered randomly—most often they appeared because they were summoned, or because the Veil was particularly thin in a location. If Gascard DuPuis was here, he was meddling with dangerous magics indeed.

"I don't think the guards raiding the estate met that particular reception," Aveline said uneasily, sliding her sword back into its scabbard. Marian couldn't help but feel a brief flash of vindication; it was hardly an admission that Marian was right, but at least Aveline was conceding that there was _something_ going on here.

"Looks like Gascard's been busy," Isabela remarked, her eyes darting over a note she'd picked up from the desk nearby. 

Marian sidled up next to her, scanning the note's contents for herself. It seemed that Gascard had been involving himself in deals that, from the ambiguous wording, were not entirely legal. The note mentioned an artifact of some kind, and creatures—Marian could only assume it was referring to the shades they'd just encountered, though it would be foolish to think the danger had completely passed. 

"If it's not blood magic, it's something just as bad," Marian said, keeping a wary eye on all of the room's exits. 

"Well, we've already poked the bronto," Varric said with a shrug. "Might as well play this out, and try not to get trampled."

A search of the lower rooms turned up nothing; in fact, they didn't encounter much of anything until they made their way into a sitting room on the second floor. There, they were met with more shades, and a curt written response from Starkhaven's First Enchanter to Gascard's inquiries about missing mages. 

"Why would Gascard be inquiring about escaped mages from Starkhaven?" Aveline mused.

"It doesn't seem to fit," Marian agreed, furrowing her brow. "If he's the one hunting these women down, he'd know what happened to them, he wouldn't need to ask."

Isabela chuckled. "Honestly, you're both far too _good_ for…well, for your own good." She raised an eyebrow, glancing back and forth between them. "What better way to throw suspicion off of yourself than to make it look like you're investigating the same thing?"

"Not to mention," Varric added, "that if it's mages he's after, they'd be a lot easier to get his hands on without their templar babysitters watching their every move."

Both valid points. Marian met Aveline's eyes and shrugged; sometimes it helped to think like a criminal. "Let's keep moving," Marian said, glancing around the room for any other clues she might have missed. "If he doesn't know we're here yet, he will soon. I don't want to give this bastard a chance to escape again." 

They encountered no more shades or demons, only a disturbing quiet that had them all on edge. They eventually made it up a stairwell to a more private area of the house, where the bedrooms were. On a desk near the stairs, there was another note.

"Honestly," Marian cracked a smirk, skimming the words. "can he not keep all of his mail on one place?"

A warmth beside her alerted her to Isabela's presence, much closer than was necessary for Isabela to be able to read the note as well. This one was an apology from Knight-Commander Meredith for the recent raid on the estate. "Squeaky wheel gets the grease," Isabela muttered under her breath.

"I wonder if Meredith would be so quick to apologize if she knew Gascard was a mage," Marian said, setting the letter back down on the desk. She'd yet to meet the Knight Commander, but everything she'd heard painted a picture of a woman with zero sympathy for mages—Marian didn't doubt that, given the opportunity, Meredith would turn all mages Tranquil, if not kill them outright. 

"I'm surprised she hasn't given him a medal," Varric said dryly. "Mage or not, he's doing her job for her—all she has to do is turn a blind eye. And if he gets too enthusiastic about it, she can always have him brought in to the Gallows." 

"A perfect arrangement," Marian said, a chill climbing up her spine. She didn't like the thought of her sister's life being in the hands of someone that corrupt. 

One of the doors nearby led to a room with three small beds lining the walls—just large enough for one person to sleep comfortably. A pile of sheets and blankets was crumpled up in the corner, and a chest near the door was stuffed full of clothing—women's clothing.

"Why is he keeping these things around?" Varric pondered. "I thought Gascard lived alone."

"I knew a man who dressed up in his wife's clothing," Isabela chimed in, apropos of nothing. "He had so much fun with it."

"Somehow I don't think that's what these are for," Marian said, tension seeping into her muscles. The evidence all pointed to one thing: Gascard's guilt. "We've got to find this man, and stop him."

Finding him was surprisingly easy. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall; the door opened to reveal a sobbing woman kneeling at the feet of a man Marian could only assume was Gascard DuPuis himself.

"Help me! Please!" the woman begged. "He's gone mad!"

Gascard whirled around, his mouth opening in surprise when he saw who the intruders were. "You're not…you're not him," he said, sounding almost disappointed. His eyes darted between Marian and his prisoner. "Shit. I—I know what this looks like, but I didn't hurt her!"

Marian stepped closer, narrowing her eyes as she searched his own. He…appeared to be telling the truth, but that didn't mesh with the woman cowering before him—maybe he had a different definition of the word "hurt"? 

"So the wild-eyed hysteria is just for show then?" Marian replied caustically. 

"You don't understand," he said, frustration lacing his voice. "Someone is after her. I have to keep her safe." 

Marian raised an eyebrow at that, sharing a skeptical glance with Aveline.

"I don't know why you're here," Gascard rushed on, "but there's a killer out there, and I think he's playing us both. Just—just let me explain!"

Despite how the situation looked, Marian could see that the man was telling the truth—at least, technically. It felt like he was holding something back; it couldn't hurt to try to find out what. Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave him a little shrug. "All right," she said, keeping her eyes locked on his own. "Explain."

"Twenty silver if he says, 'it wasn't me, it was the one-armed man!'" Varric cracked, earning a chuckle from Isabela. 

Gascard ignored the joke, turning away to look at the wall. "Several years ago, my sister was murdered," he said, his voice cracking a little. "The bastard's now in Kirkwall, killing again—the same way he killed my sister."

Marian frowned; without seeing his face, she couldn't tell if he was lying. Just as she was about to tell him to look at her, he turned of his own accord, his expression serious.

"It starts with a bouquet of white lilies. He sends them to each new victim," Gascard explained. White lilies…Marian remembered Emeric mentioning something about that, years ago when she was investigating Ninette de Carrac's disappearance. "Alessa was going to be next," he continued, turning to look at the kneeling woman. "I took her, so he'd have to come to me. I was finally going to face my sister's killer," bitterness seeped into his voice, "but then you showed up.

"He's lying," the woman—Alessa—cried, peering past him to look beseechingly at Marian. "He hurt me!" 

Gascard dropped to his knees before Alessa with a frustrated growl. "I've explained this," he said, reaching out to grasp her shoulders. "I need your blood to track you down if he took you. It was for your protection!"

"Let go of me!" Alessa shrugged his hands off of her, pushing herself to her feet. Her shrieks of fear echoed behind her as she ran from the room.

"She'll go straight to the City Guard," Gascard huffed, shooting Marian a resentful glare. "They'll ruin everything!" 

Marian narrowed her eyes. "Can't you just tell the city guard what you told me?"

"Yes, can't you?" Aveline chimed in, planting her feet with a stern glare.

"Why?" Gascard scoffed. "I don't want him arrested. This isn't about justice." He turned again, looking out into the night sky past his balcony. "I need to be the one to bleed him dry."

"Selfish little shit," Aveline snapped. "How many have you risked, keeping this to yourself?"

Holding up one hand to Aveline, Marian stepped forward, suspicion rising in her chest. "Who is this man you claim killed your sister?"

"A powerful and experienced blood mage," Gascard spat bitterly, turning around to meet Marian's gaze. "I believe he uses the women for some ritual. His victims are attractive, healthy women with few social ties."

A familiar description, and one that would easily fit a confessor—and Marian had a hunch that Gascard knew it. "Is that the only connection?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. 

His eyes widened, and she saw realization flicker through them before they darted away from hers. "I—isn't that enough?" he asked indignantly.

"It would be," Marian granted, stepping toward him. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Aveline, Varric, and Isabela moving into position to keep him from escaping. "If you weren't keeping something from me." 

"I—you—you're one of them!" Gascard's gaze shot to the door, then behind him to the balcony, frantically searching for an escape.

His words didn't have much chance to register before a crossbow bolt went flying past his ear. Then it was chaos; shades popped up all around them, and somewhere during the melee Gascard managed to slip out the door. 

As they chased after him, Marian silently cursed Varric's itchy trigger finger. If she'd been able to confess the man, she could have gotten more information out of him—she was sure he knew who the killer was, if not where to find him. 

Of course, if she'd confessed him, she would have had to explain to Varric and Isabela what she really was. It was this fact that had her breathing a sigh of relief as Gascard finally fell to Isabela's daggers. 

"Let's search the estate," Marian said, wiping sweat from her brow as the last of the Fade creatures was slain. "He wasn't the killer, but he knew a lot more than he was saying."

***

They hadn't found anything. Gascard DuPuis had been the twitchy, dishonest sort, but he certainly knew how to cover his tracks. No journals, no shady addresses jotted down on a spare bit of parchment…if it weren't for Hawke's vehement insistence, Isabela would have doubted he knew much of anything.

Hawke was certain, though—too certain. No one was _that_ good at reading people. 

"I'm dying to know," Isabela said casually, slipping her arm through Hawke's as they walked. "What did Gascard mean, 'you're one of them'? One of what?"

"How should I know?" Hawke shrugged, keeping her eyes on the stones beneath their feet. "The man was crazy." 

For a woman who always seemed to know when someone was being dishonest, Hawke really was a terrible liar. Not that it bothered Isabela overmuch; let her have her secrets—Isabela was far more interested in other things. "You know, that's the most words you've strung together since we left that mansion. I might start to think you don't like me."

"Sorry." Hawke blushed, her arm twitching nervously against Isabela's side. "I'm just…thinking."

"Thinking is overrated," Isabela said breezily, pressing her breast against Hawke's arm as she leaned in to murmur into her ear. "Doing is much more fun." A thought popped into her head, and she pulled away, moving directly into Hawke's path. Her hands fell to either side of Hawke's waist. "Unless you're thinking about doing, which is almost as good—especially if it leads to doing."

"Isabela…" Hawke rolled her eyes, trying in vain to cover the waver in her voice. In the dark, it was harder to see the color that rose in Hawke's cheeks, but the shy, awkward half-smile said enough. 

"Come on, Hawke," Isabela urged, her fingers tightening at Hawke's hips as she backed the woman toward a nearby wall. "It's been three years and I still haven't gotten you into bed. It's a shameful mark on my reputation."

Hawke scoffed at that, nervously looking everywhere but at Isabela. "Like you've ever cared what anyone thought of you."

"Fair enough," Isabela conceded with a warm chuckle. The momentary flash of surprise on Hawke's face as her back collided with the wall quickly faded into a look of poorly guarded desire. Isabela leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Hawke's ear. "But I do go after what I want—and I usually get it." 

"It's not going to happen, Isabela," Hawke said shakily. Her hands went to Isabela's shoulders, keeping distance between them but not quite pushing her away. "It can't." 

Can't. There was that word again. Every time Isabela pushed beyond casual flirting, that was always Hawke's answer—never "won't", never "I just plain don't want to", always "can't"—as though she wanted to, but something was stopping her. 

In truth, trying to get Hawke into bed had become a habit—something she just did, like sharpening her daggers or cheating at cards. It wasn't that Isabela was desperate. Maker knew she could have her pick of lovers—and she certainly had—but to give up when it was so obvious that Hawke wanted her felt far too close to admitting defeat, and that was something Isabela never, ever did.

"Nonsense," Isabela chided. She let her fingertips slip under Hawke's leather vest, teasing at the woman's sides through the linen of her shirt. "You've got parts, I've got parts, there's no reason they can't be friends." 

Hawke's breath stuttered against Isabela's cheek, her chest pushing against Isabela's erratically as she struggled to bring her breathing under control. "There are things you don't know about me." 

"What a coincidence," Isabela said with a grin. She let her cheek brush against Hawke's as she slowly drew her head back to look Hawke in the eyes. "I know a fabulous way to get to know a person."

It was delicious, the way Hawke's breath caught as Isabela moved in closer. The way Hawke's lips parted as though to issue one last protest, only to melt as Isabela closed the final distance. 

Isabela started off slow, simply savoring the taste of victory within her grasp. She'd wondered what kissing Hawke—well, and doing other things to her—would be like from the moment they'd met, and she wasn't disappointed. Hawke was hesitant at first, still trying to hold on to that ridiculous self-restraint, but when Isabela slid her tongue out to trace those parted lips, all bets were off. A needy whimper vibrated against Isabela's mouth, and fingers dug into her shoulders, pulling her closer as Hawke returned the kiss in earnest. 

This was the passion Isabela had known lurked beneath Hawke's controlled exterior—the one she'd caught glimpses of in battle, or in brief moments before Hawke closed herself off from her flirtations yet again—and the best part was that this was just a taste. Isabela couldn't wait to see what Hawke was like when they really got started. 

Literally. Isabela couldn't be bothered with trying to make it the rest of the way back to Hawke's estate; the dark passageway they'd stopped in was more than private enough, and Isabela had no intention of letting Hawke second-guess this. Tearing her mouth away from Hawke's, Isabela sucked and nibbled her way along the curve of a jaw, down the soft skin of Hawke's neck. The throaty moan that rumbled beneath her tongue sparked a jolt of arousal between her legs.

"I knew this would be worth the wait," Isabela murmured, smirking as her fingers snaked underneath Hawke's shirt, dipping just behind the waist of her trousers. Hawke's hips jerked at the brush of fingertips against her hipbone, and Isabela was more than happy to oblige her with a firmer touch, sliding her hand lower to cup Hawke's sex. 

Hawke gasped, struggling to keep her hips still. Isabela pulled back just enough to see Hawke's face, shaking her head a little at what she saw. Hawke was stretched so tight she looked as though she may snap; she hadn't stopped Isabela, but she was still clinging to some semblance of control.

That wouldn't do. Isabela pressed her palm firmly up, groaning softly at the wetness that slid against her skin. "Just let go," she urged, leaning in so her words whispered across Hawke's lips. "I promise you'll enjoy this."

Instead of relaxing, Hawke tightened further—if that was even possible—and immediately shoved at Isabela's shoulders. "No," Hawke gasped. "No, Isabela, stop—I can't do this."

Isabela pulled away, her brow tightening in confusion. Hawke wanted her; if she'd ever needed proof of that, she'd gotten it in the fervor of Hawke's response to her touch. Even now, she could see desire burning in Hawke's eyes—eyes that, even in the dim light, Isabela could see were almost black.

And welling with tears. "I'm sorry," Hawke said shakily. "I—I want to. You must know that by now. I just…I _can't_."

She sounded so flaming desolate. If she started to cry, Isabela didn't know what she'd do—she wasn't good at all that emotional stuff. "No worries," Isabela said, holding her hands out as she shrugged. "It's only sex—or, _not_ sex, as the case may be. Not like I've never heard the word 'no' before."

"It's not that simple," Hawke insisted, turning her eyes to the ground. After a moment of internal debate, her gaze snapped back up to Isabela's. "Come home with me, to the estate. I'll—I'll explain everything. Just…not here." She glanced back and forth, and her meaning was clear: not in public. Not where anyone else could hear.

Whatever Hawke's secret was, it was big. Big, and probably dangerous, and Isabela really had enough to be worrying about with Castillon's men still after her and the relic no closer to being found. Well, that, and…it seemed obvious this wasn't something Hawke trusted a lot of people with. That she apparently trusted Isabela enough, that she _cared_ enough for Isabela to know, was…unsettling. Isabela didn't want that kind of responsibility. 

"Not necessary," Isabela said, forcing a smirk onto her lips. "A girl's allowed to have a few secrets. I'll just head down to the Rose instead. There's more than one way to scratch an itch." 

She turned away before Hawke could protest—but not before she caught the heartbroken look on Hawke's face. Isabela shook her head as she walked, telling herself that the ache she felt was between her legs, not behind her ribs. Yes, the Blooming Rose was just what she needed.

***

Marian watched helplessly as Isabela walked away. Tears pressed against her eyes, and finally she just let them fall; it was the one release she could allow herself. She wasn't sure how long she stood there, staring at an empty street, but finally she pushed away from the wall and trudged the rest of the way home.

The walk cleared her head a little, and by the time she got to the front door of her estate—how odd, still, to think of it as _hers_ —she had managed to stop the steady stream of tears. Quietly, she let herself into the house; it was late, and she didn't want to wake anyone. 

As she closed the door behind her, the memory of her encounter ran on a loop in her mind. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, her stomach fluttering at the memory of Isabela's kisses, of Isabela's hand between her legs. Even if it had been a mistake, it had been better than anything she could have dreamed. Her fingers drifted to her lips, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she walked softly up the stairs to her bedroom.

Not long after she'd entered, she heard a soft knock on the door behind her. She finished shrugging off her vest, tossing it onto the bed on her way to the door. 

"Mother," Marian said, surprised. Though the tears had stopped, her voice was still tellingly thick. She cleared her throat. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I couldn't sleep," Mother replied, her brow tightening when she saw Marian's tear-stained face. "I was on my way to make myself some tea when I heard you come in. Is everything all right?"

Marian sighed, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. "Could be worse," she said with a halfhearted shrug. 

Mother sat down next to her, reaching out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "It's that pirate, isn't it?"

"How did—" Marian began, shocked; she stopped when she saw the knowing smile on Mother's lips.

"I'm not blind," Mother chided, nudging Marian's shoulder with her own. "I've seen your face when you mention her. You light up." Her smile faded, and slipped an arm around Marian, pulling her close to press a kiss into her hair. "I worry about you," she admitted.

Marian didn't need to ask why. "I almost lost control tonight," she confessed, looking guiltily down at the carpet. "She's been pursuing me for years—Maker knows why—but she's never…I mean, I've never let her get that close."

When she dared to meet her mother's eyes again, they weren't filled with disappointment and condemnation like she feared; instead, she found sympathy and understanding. "Anyone can be tempted," Mother said gently, squeezing Marian's shoulders. "The important thing is that you stopped before it went too far."

A dry, humorless laugh left Marian's lips. "I almost didn't," she said. "And after…I was ready to tell her everything. I asked her to come back here, so I could explain, but she ran off instead."

Mother reached out with the hand that wasn't wrapped around Marian's shoulders, resting her palm against Marian's cheek. "I trust your judgment," she said firmly. "If you think she can be trusted, she must have given you reason to believe it."

"It doesn't matter," Marian replied, her throat swelling with tears again. "She doesn't want to know, anyway."

With a sigh, Mother dropped her gaze to her lap. "I wish I could tell you what you want to hear," she said sadly. "I know how it hurts, knowing that you can never have what so many take for granted."

"Except you did," Marian argued. "You had Father."

"I was lucky," Mother said. "So very lucky—don't think I don't know that." She looked back up at Marian, her voice strong and sure. "But the best thing that came from my years with Malcolm was you, and your sister. And that is a joy that you _will_ know, someday. To know that our line won't die out, that we're leaving a legacy for future generations…the love I shared with your father, as miraculous as it was, pales in comparison to that."

Marian scoffed sullenly. "What's the use of a legacy that's more like a curse?" she asked bitterly. "Why should I confess some man just to bring a child into this world, knowing what she'll face?"

Mother took a deep breath, cupping Marian's face with both hands. "Because one day, perhaps far in the future, we'll no longer have to hide. We'll be free to wield our power with pride—to help people, not to harm them." Her voice was filled with a growing passion. "Just imagine all the innocent people, punished for crimes they didn't commit—or the guilty ones that go free, for lack of proof. We can stop that from happening. We have a place in this world, Marian. The world just has to be ready for us—and we have to still be around when that time comes." 

Her passion was infectious, and a smile pulled at Marian's lips. "I hope you're right," she said, pulling away from her mother's hands to rest her head on her shoulder. "All this pain has to be worth something."

"Of course I'm right," Mother retorted, slipping her arm back around Marian. "I'm your mother."


	4. Chapter 4

If the Maker truly existed, He had a twisted sense of humor. Enduring the pain of feelings that could never be acknowledged, let alone returned, was bad enough. Now, to be tempted with…this?

Isabela stood before her, something like hope and affection—Marian didn’t dare call it love—shining in her amber eyes. Her lips were curved into a familiar smirk, but the words coming out of them were impossible to believe.

“I know what you are, Hawke. It doesn’t matter. I can’t be confessed.”

Despite her shock at the words themselves, Marian was still aware of just how much they revealed. She shot a quick, panicked glance toward Varric, but he seemed more confused than anything else. Aveline, on the other hand, was tense and ready for a fight.

“Don’t listen to her, Hawke,” Aveline warned, her voice tinged with bitter disgust. “It’s not real.”

Isabela scoffed, never taking her eyes off of Marian. “Lady Manhands has never approved of me—especially when it comes to you. I can’t tell you how many times she’s warned me off. But I never stopped trying—that’s got to count for something.”

“Of course, Isabela,” Marian assured, glancing between the two women in confusion. “I just...I don’t understand.”

Suddenly—almost faster than physically possible—Isabela had closed the distance between them. She ran a rough, dark finger down Marian’s cheek, causing a shiver to run down her spine. “It’s simple, sweet thing,” she murmured, leaning in so that her breath puffed over Marian’s lips. “Your power won’t work on me. We can have all the fun we want without risking a thing.”

They were so close; if Marian moved forward the slightest bit, their lips would touch. She swallowed hard, trying desperately not to give in to the temptation. “How?” she choked out.

“Don’t worry about that,” Isabela said, sliding her fingers back to cradle the back of Marian’s head. Her forehead pressed against Marian’s own, and her voice turned pleading. “Let yourself have this. I’ve got a brand new ship waiting at the docks. You can be my first mate. We’ll go on adventures, and have fabulous sex all the time.”

It sounded perfect; Marian couldn’t have fought the smile that pulled at her mouth if she’d tried. Her own hands rose to settle on Isabela’s hips, feeling warm skin beneath the meager layers of clothing. “I never figured you for a commitment kind of girl.”

Isabela shrugged, her smirk giving way to a more honest, genuine smile. “Yeah, well. Maybe I could try something new. If you make it worth my while,” she finished with a wink. When Marian didn’t offer an argument, Isabela leaned in to close the remaining distance between them. 

Just as their lips were about to meet, Isabela tensed, her gaze snapping to something over Marian’s shoulder. 

Something shifted in Isabela then; for a split second, all her edges blurred, and her bronze skin took on an almost violet glow. Marian closed her eyes and shook her head, and when she opened them again, Isabela was back to normal. It was just the light.

Of greater concern was the figure charging toward Isabela, sword raised in attack. The sight was blurred; all Marian could make out was the hint of armor, the glint of light on the blade.

“Shit,” Isabela cursed, reaching for her daggers. “It’s Castillon—he’s found me.” Her eyes turned to Marian, shining with fear and panic. “Hawke, he’ll kill me.”

The figure paused in its advance, turning toward Marian. She was starting to be able to make out broad shoulders, close-cut brown hair—or was it long, and red? Cool blue eyes narrowed in confusion. “No, Hawke, it’s me, it’s—”

Before Castillon could finish his sentence, Isabela lunged forward, slicing at the man’s abdomen. Soon the two were locked in a heated battle, sword and shield against twin daggers that tried desperately to slip under Castillon’s defenses.

A crossbow bolt went flying past Isabela’s head, jarring Marian from her daze. She hadn’t seen the dwarf before—one of Castillon’s men, she presumed. 

“A little help here!” Isabela grunted, catching Castillon’s sword in the cross of her blades. The parry left her midsection unguarded, and Marian’s eyes widened as she saw the dwarf taking aim. She leapt at him without a second thought, getting in close to avoid giving him an easy target. For a dwarf, though, he was surprisingly quick on his feet, and it took all of Marian’s focus to pursue him. 

While she was dodging yet another crossbow bolt, an agonized groan resonated in her ears. She glanced sharply over, agony welling up in her chest as she saw Isabela falling to the ground. Her daggers clattered against the stones, but all Marian could hear was the pounding of her heart and the quick, shallow breaths that Isabela was taking as she clutched her abdomen. 

Then the breathing stopped.

The rage began to take Marian then; she could feel it bubbling up inside of her, lining her muscles with steel and settling cold and hard in the pit of her stomach. Her shoulders began to shake, her hands tightening with the need to punish those responsible for Isabela’s death. Her eyes welled with angry tears as she stretched a hand out toward Castillon—or was it him? The image flickered, and suddenly instead of the notorious merchant, she was looking at Aveline—her best friend. 

Her fury faltered for a split second—enough time for Varric’s shot to hit its mark. Marian looked down in shock as a crossbow bolt exploded from her chest. Her vision dimmed as she fell to her knees, then collapsed onto her side. The last thing she saw were the pained, contrite looks on the faces of her friends, and a nearly-nude violet-skinned figure lying several paces away.

***

Marian jolted awake with a gasp. She clutched at her chest, where phantom pain still lingered, but her fingers met only solid, unmarred cloth. No blood. She was alive. Pushing herself to sit up, she rested her elbows on her knees and pressed her palms to her forehead.

What had she done? It had all seemed so real, Isabela’s confession, her proposition. She had scarcely been able to believe it, but somehow just looking into those amber eyes had been enough to convince her. When had her feelings for Isabela become enough to make her turn on her friends?

“You’re awake,” Marethari said, surprised. “Is Feynriel…?”

“I don’t know,” Marian said, unable to meet the Keeper’s gaze. “I…I failed. I couldn’t resist.” 

Marethari knelt beside her, an understanding smile on her lips. She placed a slender hand on Marian’s shoulder. “The Fade is home to countless temptations, child. It is not shameful to fall prey to the demons and their lies. It happens every day, to mages with far more practice than you at resisting.”

Except that Marian had spent her entire life resisting temptation. Guilty tears stung at her eyes, and she swallowed them back roughly as she ran her hands through her hair.

“Two of your friends yet remain in the Fade,” Marethari pointed out reassuringly. “Perhaps they will succeed where you have failed.”

Marian followed her gesture, her eyes falling on the slumbering figures of Varric and Aveline. The sight jarred her memory of what had happened before her own temptation. “Merrill, is she all right?”

The Dalish elf had seemed the perfect candidate for a helping hand with this ritual; being a blood mage, she was uniquely experienced in dealing with demons, and Marian had hoped this experience would make Merrill less likely to succumb. Instead, she’d been the first to fall, when the Pride demon offered her the very thing she’d spent years striving for, risking the hatred of the very people she was trying to help. 

Marethari sighed, her eyes drifting shut for a brief moment. When they opened again, Marian saw a familiar shine in them; she’d seen it before in her mother’s eyes, whenever Carver had done something that disturbed her. For all of Merrill’s gripes about Marethari’s disapproval, Marian wondered if she knew just how much the Keeper cared. “She is…struggling,” Marethari said, rising to her feet. She glanced toward the door. “She woke not long before you did. I believe you’ll find her outside by the vhenadahl.”

Marian moved to get up, then glanced back at Aveline and Varric. It was impossible to tell what they were dreaming about, whether they would succeed or fail. She didn’t know if her presence would even help them in any way, but she felt guilty leaving them.

“It will likely take a bit longer,” Marethari assured, “and you’ll just be right outside. If they wake before you come back, I’ll tell them where you are.” 

“Thank you,” Marian said, slowly pushing herself to her feet. “I…I’m sorry I failed.”

A small, pale hand came up to cup Marian’s cheek. “Do not be sorry, child. _Ma serannas._ It is I who should thank you, for daring to try.”

Glancing down at her sleeping friends, Marian felt worry gnaw at her stomach. “I just hope it wasn’t for nothing.”

***

By the Creators, she was a fool. When Hawke had asked for her help to save that elf-blooded boy from the Fade, Merrill had jumped at the chance. She’d lived nearly four years in Kirkwall, and still the only people she could really call friends were Varric and Isabela. Not that there was anything wrong with either of them, of course, but they were both terribly busy people—Varric with all of his “projects” around town, and Isabela with her relic. Merrill did cherish the time she got to spend with either of them, as little as it might be.

Still, there was something about Hawke—a familiar kind of loneliness, like she could be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone. Merrill recognized it because it was a feeling she’d lived with for a long time. She’d hoped that she could be Hawke’s friend, that they could ease each other’s loneliness, but Hawke had kept her distance ever since she’d gotten Merrill settled into her home in the alienage. 

She knew why, too. Merrill was well educated in what others thought of blood magic, having been exposed to a wide and varied array of people who all seemed to have the same opinion: it was dangerous, it was evil, and it was about the same as walking up to a demon in the Fade and asking them to possess you. That’s not to say she understood it; Creators, it wasn’t as though she was using anyone _else’s_ blood for it, and she’d been working with her spirit for years without sensing the slightest hint of danger. 

Maybe that was why she’d been so blindsided by the Pride demon. It had been so easy—shamefully so—for him—it?—to tempt Merrill away from Hawke’s side. All it had taken was the mere suggestion of a promise, and she had been lost. Her stomach still ached where she had felt Hawke’s dagger plunge into it. 

The light was slowly fading from the sky, and the alienage was quiet. Most of the elves were indoors now, eating their meager suppers and huddling together for warmth. Others were no doubt still laboring away at their jobs, working themselves to the bone for wages so low they might as well be slaves. Most days, it seemed as though the vhenadahl was the only thing in the alienage that had any sort of vibrancy or warmth—any sort of life. 

She pressed her palm to the trunk of the tree, resting her forehead against the rough bark. It was meant to be a symbol of Arlathan, of the history that had been lost so many years ago. Was it so wrong to want more than this for her people, to want to restore that glory and culture they once possessed? If she met the Pride demon again, and was given the same offer, would she be able to resist, or would she succumb a second time? 

“Mind if I join you, or would you prefer to brood alone?”

Merrill tensed. She’d been so lost in thought that she hadn’t even heard Hawke approach. In Kirkwall—particularly in the alienage—that could get you killed. “Hawke,” she choked out, forcing herself to turn around. Hawke’s boots were looking awfully tattered—you would think with the fortune she’d made in the Deep Roads, she could afford new ones, but Merrill could never pretend to understand humans and footwear. “I—I can’t believe I turned on you back there, in the Fade.” The words spilled out of her, but she knew even as they did that they could never be enough. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me.”

Hawke was silent long enough that Merrill just had to look up; when she did, what she found on Hawke’s face was nowhere near the reproach and disappointment she’d expected. Instead, there was understanding, and a bit of guilt. “Merrill, there’s nothing to forgive,” Hawke said softly. “You didn’t betray me. The demon made you do it.” She almost sounded like she was trying to convince herself. 

“How do you do that?” Merrill asked, shaking her head a little in wonder. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you condemn anyone. You always just seem to understand, even if you don’t agree. It’s like magic that doesn’t get you in trouble.”

That brought a secret sort of half-smile to Hawke’s face, though her eyes shone with a deep, resigned sadness. “Anyone can fall prey to a demon,” was all she said, her voice thick. 

With a sigh, Merrill sank down onto one of the crates stacked around the vhenadahl. “I’ve been so careful with all my dealings with spirits until now,” she said, worrying her hands together on her lap. “To make such an obvious mistake…it frightens me. It takes so little for a mage to fall.”

“Not just a mage,” Hawke replied, looking away as if lost in some kind of memory.

It hit Merrill, then—why Hawke could so easily forgive her for this, so easily understand. “You gave in too, didn’t you?” 

The crate next to Merrill creaked as Hawke lowered herself down onto it. She gave a tight nod, fixing her eyes on the dirty ground of the alienage. She looked…haunted. “What do you do,” she asked slowly, “to protect yourself from demons?”

Her eyes, when they turned up to meet Merrill’s, were filled with a desperate sort of hope. Merrill’s chest swelled with a mixture of pride and excitement—here was someone she could help, someone who _wanted_ her help. “The Keeper taught me,” Merrill began, “in the Fade, you must believe nothing but yourself. Everything there is a lie, or a trick, or a trap. No one is to be trusted, not even your closest friend.” Her smile faded as she remembered the Pride demon’s offer. She looked back down at her hands. “I knew not to trust…I don’t know why I did.”

Hawke’s hand came to rest on Merrill’s shoulder, warm and gentle. “What made _you_ give in?”

Merrill sighed. “It felt like…every word the demon spoke reached out and pulled at my heart.” There was an ache in her chest just remembering it. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I just…had to.”

A short, humorless laugh shook Hawke’s shoulders. “I know what you mean.”

Their heart-to-heart was interrupted by the door to Arianni’s house creaking open. Marethari appeared in the doorway, a relieved smile on her lips. “Your friends are awake,” she said, her smile growing wider, “and they succeeded.”

***

Oh, man. This stuff was too good for even him to make up.

Varric was in his suite, sitting across from a fidgety, nervous Hawke. Their encounter in the Fade had left him with more than a few questions, but she’d seemed upset enough about it without him hounding her for details. Still, when she showed up at his door offering answers, there was no sodding way he was going to turn her away. 

His hands had been folded in front of him on the table for the past ten minutes, clenching tight to keep his itchy fingers from reaching for a quill. It probably wouldn’t be very supportive to take notes while she confessed her centuries-old legacy from the Tevinters. But Andraste’s tits did it put her Fade hallucination in perspective. He’d thought he was onto something before, with the whole deal between Hawke and the Rivaini, but this was just…too good.

Too bad he could never use it. Sodding ancestors. Leave it to him to stumble across the greatest tragic love story of all time and not be able to pen a single word of it—a decision that, by the way, he’d already come to long before Hawke pleaded with him not to put any of this into his stories. 

“Hawke,” he said, bringing his hand to his chest. “I’m offended you even had to ask.”

Her answering smile could have lit up the room all on its own. How she managed to smile at all, given what she’d just told him about her life, was yet another mystery in the ever-shifting tapestry that was his story of Hawke. 

“So, we’re all right?” Hawke asked, peering up through her lashes meekly. “With what happened, I mean. I really can’t tell you enough how sorry I am.”

Varric laughed and shook his head. “Hawke, if one of those demons had offered me Bartrand’s head on a pike, I might have done the same thing. Really. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks, Varric.” Hawke smiled again, rising from her seat. She paused at the door, and her glance down the hall was anything but surreptitious. 

“She’s in her room,” Varric called out helpfully. There was only one reason Hawke would linger in the Hanged Man, and he knew it wasn’t his sparkling wit or glorious chest hair. 

Hawke stiffened ever so slightly, shifting from one foot to another in deliberation. Finally she called out thanks once more, then headed down the hall. 

The gears were already turning in Varric’s head. Despite what Hawke had said about the impossibility of her feelings for the Rivaini, that story was anything but over—he’d bet a sovereign on it.

***

Marian took a deep breath, holding her satchel close as she stared at Isabela’s door. It had been nearly two weeks since she’d seen Isabela—since that night when she’d come dangerously close to destroying her. She wasn’t actively trying to avoid the pirate, but she had to admit, temptation was easier to resist when it wasn’t around. She had a feeling Isabela had been doing some avoiding of her own, in any case; the few times she’d stopped by the Hanged Man, Marian had seen Isabela’s usual stool sitting empty.

The fact was, though, she missed Isabela. They were friends—at least Marian liked to think they were—and she wasn’t one to have so many friends that she didn’t notice when one was absent. She also happened to have a perfectly good excuse for visiting; she’d found the gift while hunting down that dwarf for the Arishok—or, on his tip, or whatever; she still hadn’t figured out who was doing whom a favor there—and there hadn’t been any question what she should do with it. Hopefully Isabela would appreciate the gesture.

Finally she worked up the courage to knock, her heart thudding in her chest as she waited for a response.

“I don’t want any,” Isabela’s muffled voice called out. After a beat, she continued. “Unless it’s booze. Or sex.”

Shaking her head, Marian reached for the doorknob, not surprised to find it unlocked. She’d be more surprised if the lock worked at all, really, given the quality of everything else at the Hanged Man. She pushed open the door, offering a hesitant smile as apology for the intrusion. 

“I can’t provide either, I’m afraid,” Marian said, closing the door behind her. “I do have something else for you, though.”

Isabela was lounging in one of the chairs at the table in her room, her feet propped up on the seat of the other as she sharpened one of her many daggers. She set the blade and whetstone down on the table, her eyebrow arching as she studied Marian’s satchel. “You know, showering a girl with gifts isn’t exactly the best way to go about _not_ sleeping with her.”

Marian blushed and forced herself to step closer to the table, pulling the crudely wrapped package from the satchel. “Consider it a peace offering.” 

“Oh? Were we fighting?” Isabela asked with a practiced innocence. She took the gift nonetheless, deft fingers quickly doing away with the plain brown paper. A small, delighted gasp escaped her lips, too natural to be faked. “Oh, isn’t that just the cutest thing?”

Warmth blossomed in Marian’s chest, and she smiled in return, leaning in to study the tiny ship contained in a glass bottle. “You can’t see it, but belowdecks there’s a perfect replica of you,” she joked, “with a dozen sailors in attendance.”

Isabela batted at Marian’s hip. “You tease. I’m sure there isn’t.” Her eyes narrowed anyway, peering into the tiny windows. “It is a worthy goal to work towards, though.” After a few moments of further examination, she raised her eyes to Marian’s. “Thank you, Hawke,” she said. “This was a thoughtful gesture.”

“It was nothing.” Marian shrugged. “I just saw it and thought of you. It may not be a sea-ready vessel, but it’s a start,” she cracked with a grin. “I would have gotten it to you sooner, but I never seemed to catch you.”

“About that,” Isabela said, her eyes darting away to settle on the bottle in her lap. Her voice was casual to an almost forced degree. “I’ve been chasing a couple of leads on my relic,” she explained, “so I haven’t been around much.”

Marian didn’t have to be looking into Isabela’s eyes to know that it wasn’t the complete truth. Things had been awkward between them, and since she’d been trying to distract herself with other, less complicated things, she certainly couldn’t fault Isabela for doing the same. 

“Well, if you need a hand, let me know,” Marian offered. “I’m always glad to help.”

Isabela cocked her head, studying Marian for a moment. “I just might take you up on that.”


	5. Chapter 5

“You know, Big Girl,” Isabela began, with a pointed tilt of her head and a wave of her hand that came dangerously close to sloshing the whiskey right out of her mug and onto the table. “You’re going to have to tell us all the sordid details once you manage to get Donnic in the sack.”

“In your dreams, whore,” Aveline scoffed. Her words were as sharp as ever, but her voice was filled with a giddy happiness that even a stoic warrior such as she couldn’t disguise—especially in her current state of mild intoxication.

It was a rare occasion indeed that anyone managed to get Aveline to sit and drink at the Hanged Man; Marian couldn’t remember the last time it had happened—or for that matter, if it ever even had. Tonight was a special occasion, though, and Aveline hadn’t taken much convincing at all to celebrate her recent romantic success with a girls’ night at the Lowtown tavern.

“Come now,” Isabela said, with a mock-wounded look on her face. “After all the trouble we went to? If it weren’t for us, you’d be spending your salary on goat feed. That really was a terrible idea, by the way—worse than the scrap metal you wanted to give him, and that’s saying a lot.”

Aveline glared. “Your support means the world to me,” she said dryly.

Isabela shrugged. “I’m just saying, the least you could do is let us see the fruits of our labors.”

“What?” Aveline sputtered. 

“Oh, not literally.” Isabela went to roll her eyes, but halfway through she got a contemplative look on her face. “Unless you’d be into that. A little exhibitionism can be exciting, you know.” 

As Aveline returned to glaring, Merrill nudged Marian’s foot with her own under the table, frowning in confusion. “What are they talking about?” she whispered, leaning forward on her elbows. “Is it something dirty?”

“Oh, Merrill.” Marian shook her head fondly. The elf’s naivete could be adorable sometimes. “It’s Isabela—it’s _always_ something dirty.”

“I heard that.” Isabela bumped her hip against Marian’s, smirking mischievously.

“But you’re not arguing,” Marian shot back, lifting an eyebrow as she met the smirk with one of her own. 

It seemed like Marian’s overture of friendship had worked perfectly. They’d been around each other more lately, and it was finally starting to feel like Marian had her friend back. Isabela had let up on the more serious innuendos, while maintaining the casual flirtation that she had with just about anyone she came across. Marian sometimes missed the way Isabela used to look at her—like she was disrobing Marian with her eyes, and running a mental inventory of all the things she wanted to do to her—but she knew it was for the best. This, friendship, was all she could ever have, and she would cherish it. 

“Maker,” Aveline said with a grimace, pulling her mug away from her lips. “This stuff is absolutely toxic.”

Isabela laughed. “You say that as though you haven’t already had two mugs of it.”

“And I’m stopping it there,” Aveline said decisively, setting the drink down and shoving it away from her. “I’m supposed to be celebrating, not punishing myself.”

“But you’re not anywhere near drunk, Big Girl,” Isabela pointed out. “It’s not a celebration if everyone’s sober. Excluding Miss Goody Two Shoes over here.” She knocked her shoulder against Marian’s.

“I’m not opposed to drunk,” Aveline insisted. “It’s being poisoned and waking up in a ditch that I’ve got a problem with.”

“Hey now,” Isabela protested. “Some of my best stories end that way.” 

Merrill’s face brightened. “Oh, like that one you told me about the dwarf,” she said excitedly. “The one with the…wait, what did you call it again?” Her brow creased as she tried to remember.

“I’ll remind you later, Kitten,” Isabela said fondly before turning her gaze back on Aveline. “Right now we’ve got very important business to attend to. If Aveline won’t get drunk off of the Hanged Man’s finest, what are our options?”

“I’d invite everyone back to my place,” Merrill halfheartedly suggested, “but all I’ve got is water. Although the water in the alienage is dirty enough that it might get you drunk. It certainly makes enough of the elves there sick to their stomachs.” 

Aveline frowned. “That’s a troubling thought. I’ll have to have a chat with the viscount about that.”

“Back to the matter at hand,” Isabela said, knocking back the rest of her drink. “Where can we get booze that’s not here?” She stroked her chin thoughtfully. “I’m assuming the Rose is right out,” she said with a pointed look toward Aveline, who nodded vigorously in the affirmative. “That leaves…oooh, Hawke!” She threw her arm around Marian’s shoulders. “You’ve got that massive wine cellar under your estate!”

“How do you—” Marian started, then shook her head. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“Come on,” Isabela urged, squeezing Marian a little. “It’s not as though you’ll ever touch a drop, and unless your mother is secretly the world’s biggest lush, it’s just going to sit there and go to waste.”

“She does have a point,” Aveline admitted. “And anything’s got to be better than this swill.”

“All right, all right,” Marian said with her best grudging smile. She would have offered from the start if she’d even remembered the wine cellar. “Let me just go settle the tab with Norah and we’ll head out.” 

“Hawke,” Aveline protested, reaching across the table to grab Marian’s arm, “you don’t have to—”

“Quiet, Aveline,” Marian said, smiling as she shrugged off Aveline’s hand. “It’s your celebration—and I’ve got plenty of coin.”

Aveline huffed and rolled her eyes, but didn’t offer further argument. It didn’t take long to get Norah’s attention—especially once Marian rattled her coin purse in her direction—and soon the four of them were making the trek to Hightown. 

“You know, I still haven’t learned what body shots are,” Merrill said idly as they walked. 

Isabela chuckled and shook her head. “That’s not exactly a lesson Messere Prissypants would approve of, Kitten.”

“You’re damn right I wouldn’t,” Aveline piped up.

“Oh,” Merrill said, disappointed. Then she perked back up. “Well, what about what you were talking about earlier? I know it was dirty, but all I caught was something about sacks and fruit—or was it sacks _of_ fruit?” 

Throwing her arm around Merrill’s shoulders, Isabela shot Aveline a wary glance before leaning in close, murmuring something eagerly into the elf’s ear. They managed to break ahead, or else Aveline and Marian fell behind; either way, Marian found herself enjoying the quiet and peace of walking beside her friend while the others chattered happily among themselves. 

“Thank you,” Aveline said quietly, after a few moments. “I know it must have been hard for you, helping me with Donnic, when you…” she trailed off, her meaning clear. “I hadn’t wanted to ask you—”

“Stop right there, Aveline,” Marian chided, putting a hand on Aveline’s arm. “I wanted to help you. You’re my friend, and I want you to be happy.” She shrugged, looking down at the stones under her feet. “Besides, I owed you, after all that business in the Fade.”

Aveline halted abruptly. “Now you’re the one who needs to stop,” Aveline said. “I’ve told you I don’t blame you for that. There’ll be no talk of owing between us.” She paused, looking completely sober despite all the ale she’d had. “You’re more than my friend, Hawke. You’re the closest to family I’ve had these past few years.” 

“I’d be proud to call you family,” Marian murmured. She blinked back the tears that stung at her eyes and pulled Aveline into a hug. They may not have been born family, but she’d come to see Aveline as her sister—just as much as Bethany was. “Donnic’s lucky to have you.”

“Hold on,” Aveline laughed, returning the hug. “It’s not like we’re getting married. We’ve only just begun…whatever this is.” 

Marian pulled back, a knowing smirk on her face. “It’s only a matter of time. I can hear the wedding bells already,” she teased.

“Hey!” Isabela called back, crossing her arms over her chest as she took in their closeness. “Not cheating on your boy already, are you, Big Girl?” 

Aveline turned, stepping out of the embrace to head toward Isabela. “You’re just jealous that it’s not with you,” she shot back. 

Isabela was still for a moment, stunned by Aveline’s uncharacteristic humor. She snapped out of it quickly, though, and raked her eyes skeptically over Aveline’s approaching form. “Please,” she scoffed. “You’ve got so many sharp edges on you I’d have to wear armor to even get close.”

“And where would you ever find armor sized for your fat arse?” Aveline teased back. 

Marian shook her head, grinning to herself as she hurried to catch up.

***

Their cheerful mood followed them all the way up the stairs to Hightown, and through the door of Marian’s estate. Marian pulled her key from a pouch on her belt, working the lock on the door as her friends continued their discussion.

“I’m just saying, I could teach the boy a few things,” Isabela said.

“For the last time, Isabela,” Aveline groaned. “I am not sharing Donnic with you. Maker’s breath, he’s not even mine to loan out—not that I ever would.” 

Isabela tutted and shook her head. “You’re missing out.”

Whatever Aveline might have said next was lost when Marian pushed open the front door only to hear a heated exchange in progress. 

“Enchantment!” Sandal called out happily, in his usual way. 

“No, Leandra!” Gamlen shouted, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Lee. Ann. Drah!”

Marian stepped warily into the front room. Gamlen was facing the young dwarf, looking as though he was ready to strangle the poor boy, who seemed oblivious. Bodahn stood to the side, watching nervously.

“What’s wrong with you?” Marian asked brusquely, moving toward them. 

“There you are,” Gamlen sneered. “Where’s your mother? Is she feeling all right?”

“I’m tempted to say she isn’t,” Marian said, a hostile smirk pulling at her lips as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Just to see your reaction.”

Gamlen huffed. “Your mother didn’t show up for her weekly visit—”

“You mean your weekly payoff,” Marian said, cutting him off. It was the only way they’d been able to get him to keep their secret—paying him a weekly allowance that more than covered the rent for his dingy little shack. Blackmail it might be, but it kept them safe.

He glared in response. “Is she ill? She is here, isn’t she?”

Bodahn stepped forward, clearing his throat awkwardly. “No, Gamlen,” he said meekly, wringing his hands. “She left early this morning. Seemed distracted, to tell you the truth.”

Marian frowned. “Where could she be at this hour?”

“With her suitor, perhaps?” Bodahn offered with a shrug.

Gamlen scoffed bitterly. “Leandra wouldn’t have a suitor.”

While he didn’t need to be so mean about it, Marian had to admit her uncle had a point. She couldn’t see her mother seeking out another mate, this late in life—and she hadn’t mentioned anything in any of their talks. “Why would you say that, Bodahn?”

The dwarf looked back and forth between Marian and her uncle. “Well, those lilies arrived this morning, just before she left.”

As she followed Bodahn’s gaze, Marian felt her blood run cold. There, on the desk where Bodahn always put the mail, was a vase filled with white lilies.


	6. Chapter 6

For all the whiskey she’d imbibed this evening, Isabela found herself suddenly and unsettlingly sober. She knew what those white lilies meant, just as well as Aveline and Hawke did. 

“There’s a card,” Hawke said, moving mechanically over to the desk and picking up the small white card in trembling fingers. She drew in a shaking breath, scanning the words with a chilling intensity. “Bodahn,” she said, her voice wavering, “did you read this?”

“Oh, no!” Bodahn replied, putting his hands up defensively. “I wouldn’t dream of invading your mother’s privacy so.” 

Hawke closed her fist around the card, her knuckles turning white with the force of it. “My mother,” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes staring blankly toward the door. “The bastard has _my mother_.”

The crumpled note went flying across the room as Hawke turned and swept the vase off of the desk. The glass shattered against the ground, water seeping out onto the tile floor. Hawke paid it no heed, gripping the edge of the desk with a force that made her entire frame tremble. Isabela couldn’t see her face, but she had the feeling that if she could, Hawke’s expression would scare the piss out of her.

Aveline was the first to dare to approach, placing a hesitant hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “It’s not too late, Hawke,” she said, failing to keep the tremor out of her own voice. “We’ll find her.”

“She left this morning, Aveline!” There was a desperate rage in Hawke’s voice as she raised her eyes to Aveline’s. “He could have had her all day. You remember how we found Ninette—we’ll be lucky to find pieces!” she choked out the last, angry tears welling in her eyes. 

“Now just hold on one minute,” Gamlen interrupted. “What in blazes are you even talking about, girl? _Who_ has Leandra?”

Hawke whirled around with murder in her eyes. “Get out,” she warned in a tone that brooked no argument.

Of course Gamlen, the idiot, couldn’t leave it alone. “You listen here, Leandra is my sister—”

“Right,” Hawke sneered. She approached Gamlen slowly, each step more ominous than the last, until there were mere inches between them. “I’ll only tell you one more time,” she growled. “Get. Out. Of my house.”

If the situation were any less dire, Isabela would have laughed at the way Gamlen stormed out the door, muttering under his breath about ungrateful family. As it was—and she _hated_ to admit this, even to herself—she was almost afraid of what Hawke would do to her if she did. 

The fear seemed to be a common feeling, though; everyone in the room was looking at Hawke as though she were a dragon that might bite off their heads at any moment. Even Sandal looked a bit less exuberant than normal. 

“I’ll get every guard in the city on this,” Aveline swore. “We won’t rest until she’s found.”

“No,” Hawke said decisively, her fists clenched at her sides. “We’ll track them ourselves. I don’t want this man locked up—I’ll kill him myself.” 

“M-Messere, if there’s anything, anything at all, that I or my boy can do—”

“Stay here, Bodahn,” Hawke ordered, hardly sparing a glance at the dwarf. “I’ll handle this.”

Before anyone could offer any further discussion, Hawke brushed past them all, heading for the door. Aveline and Merrill were close behind. As Isabela moved to follow, her eyes fell on the balled-up card on the ground. She knelt to pick it up, frowning in confusion at the note.

_I know your secret. Meet me in Lowtown tonight or you and your daughters are as good as dead._

***

No one said a word as they made their way back to Lowtown. The laughter and teasing that had followed them all the way to Hawke’s estate was forgotten, replaced by thick tension and a cloud of dread that hovered over them. Aveline kept a watchful eye on Hawke, as though afraid of what she might do. Merrill kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her, eyes wide with worry. 

And Isabela…well, she was just trying to figure out what that flaming note meant. She’d known Hawke was hiding something, but she hadn’t suspected some great big family secret—especially not one that could get them all killed. Were they escaped slaves? Convicts? On the run from Antivan assassins?

Maybe they were all blood mages. It would have been a good cover, letting little Bethany be exposed for her powers; no one would think to question why the whole family was skittish around templars, and with the Hawkes moving up in the world, it did the Knight-Commander more good to keep Bethany alive and whole as leverage against them.

Her pondering was cut short as they descended the stairs into Lowtown. The streets were quiet and empty—at least, they appeared that way; Isabela knew there were dozens of scoundrels lurking in shadows and perched on rooftops, looking for an easy mark—except for the two men talking at the base of the stairs. 

Well, one man. The other was little more than a boy, which made the black eye on his face all the more heartbreaking. You know, if one was prone to fits of emotion over things like that. 

The man, of course, was Gamlen. The fool had no sense of when to give up. He seemed to be just barely containing the urge to reach out and shake the boy.

“You said you saw Leandra?” Gamlen demanded.

“I did,” the boy replied, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest. “What of it?”

Before Gamlen could answer, Hawke grabbed his arm, jerking him around to face her. “I told you to stay out of this,” she hissed.

“I don’t bloody well have to listen to you,” Gamlen shot back, pulling his arm free and dusting off his sleeve. “Did your mother never teach you to respect your elders?”

Hawke’s hand closed around his collar, fisting around the threadbare material of his shirt and yanking him close. “For all I know, you’re the one who told that monster about us.”

Gamlen’s eyes widened. “What? I never—”

“Go home, Gamlen,” Hawke spat, shoving him away. “Leave this to more competent hands.” 

He stepped toward her again, as if he were about to keep arguing, but Hawke’s hand clamped around his neck before he could try. “Don’t make me order you,” she growled.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said with a nervous laugh. His false bravado faded quickly as Hawke’s eyes remained fixed on him.

“Try me.” They were only two words, but the deadly threat in Hawke’s voice as she said them was enough to send shivers down even a fearsome pirate queen’s spine—and Isabela wasn’t even sure what they meant.

Aveline seemed to, though. She stepped forward, putting a firm hand on Hawke’s outstretched arm. “We need to focus on finding Leandra,” she said gently. 

Hawke hesitated for a moment before shoving Gamlen away. He stumbled back, rubbing at his throat. “I won’t let her stop me a second time,” she warned. “If I see you again before this is done, you can kiss life as you know it goodbye.”

He nodded with wide eyes, scrambling away as Hawke turned her attention to the boy Gamlen had been interrogating. “You said you saw my mother,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm. The boy nodded, fear shining in his eyes. “And you know who she is?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding more vigorously this time. “She’s a real nice lady, she is. Always tosses me a coin or two when she passes by.”

“Did you see where she went?” Hawke asked. Now that Gamlen was gone, Hawke’s anger seemed to be fading into a desperate sort of fear. 

The boy was no dullard, that was for sure. He narrowed his eyes at Hawke, trying to work up the courage for something. “What do I get for telling you?” he shot back. 

Hawke’s hands clenched tightly, and she took a deep breath before stiffly reaching for a pouch on her belt. She didn’t even look, just scooped out a handful of coins and dropped them into the boy’s hand.

His jaw dropped, his eyes widening as he took in the amount she had given him. “That’s real silver, that is!” He closed his fist around the coins, shoving them into his pocket and looking eagerly up at Hawke. “I’m your man, through and through. Tell you everything I know!”

“Start at the beginning,” Hawke directed, hugging her arms around herself.

He thought for a few moments before launching into his story. “She came by round the time the stalls opened up, asking around if anyone had seen someone suspicious lurking about.” He chuckled. “I told her this is Lowtown, right…everyone’s suspicious down here.”

Isabela smirked. The kid had a point.

“She wasn’t getting much better from any of the merchants. Then this man started sorta lurking in the archway over there, real interested in your mum asking questions. Finally he walked up to her and grabbed her arm—his hands were all bloody, like he’d been in a fight. She put her hand up on his neck, like you just did with him.” He nodded in the direction Gamlen had scurried off. “I think she was trying to fight him off, but then he said something and all of a sudden she just sorta relaxed. He put his arm around her, real friendly-like, and they walked off together.” 

Hawke was paler than Isabela had ever seen her, standing stiff and unmoving as the boy finished his tale. Finally, she turned to Aveline, something heavy and foreboding in her eyes. 

“Why didn’t it work?” Hawke murmured under her breath. Aveline shook her head, as bewildered as Hawke. 

“What didn’t work?” Isabela finally had to ask. She appreciated the direness of the situation, sure, but she couldn’t do anything if she didn’t bloody know what was going on. “And what’s this big secret?”

“ _Isabela_ ,” Aveline said harshly.

“What?” Isabela snapped. “If we’re going to help find her, I think we’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Please,” Hawke choked out, her eyes seeking out Isabela’s. She drew a trembling breath, and for a moment Isabela was sure she saw tears threatening to fall. “I’ll explain it all later, I promise. Right now we need to track them down.”

Something wrenched in Isabela’s chest, and she could only nod her acquiescence. She would demand an explanation later, though. Maker’s balls, when did she start putting anyone else’s feelings above her own?

“How do we go about doing that?” Aveline asked, glancing around the street.

“I think he left some blood over there,” the boy offered, helpfully pointing toward the wall of the arch. “From his hands.” 

Hawke was off like a shot, stalking over to examine the wall. There was indeed a dark smear of dried blood, probably where the killer had been leaning while he watched Leandra from afar. Hawke whirled around to address Merrill. “Gascard—the man we investigated before—he mentioned being able to track someone using blood. Can you do that?”

With the look of desperate hope on Hawke’s face, Isabela wasn’t sure Merrill would even admit if she couldn’t. Luckily, she seemed halfway confident when she nodded. “I—I think so.”

As Merrill stepped forward and began to work, Hawke stepped back, flanked by Aveline and Isabela on either side. The clock was ticking, but at least they were in the fight now. 

They just had to hope they weren’t too late.

***

The trail led them to the foundry district—if there had been any doubt at all that this was the same killer, it evaporated when they found themselves walking through the door to a building that was all too familiar. For Hawke’s sake, Isabela hoped they wouldn’t find the same thing they did all those years ago.

“This place feels strange,” Merrill said with a shiver. “Wrong.”

“This is where we found those human remains all those years ago,” Aveline said, glancing at Merrill. Her hands clenched into fists as she looked around for anything out of place. “We should’ve known there was something else here.”

“Mother must be here somewhere,” Hawke insisted. “We need to look around.”

There were no shades this time, no demons or otherwordly creatures. There was only the heavy echo of their footsteps as they followed behind Merrill, searching for any clue that might tell them where Leandra was. 

Except…the foundry was empty. They’d searched all the rooms, in every nook and cranny, and there was nothing. 

“There’s something here, I know it!” Merrill insisted, her voice wavering in frustration. 

Merrill couldn’t have known it, but this was the same room they’d seen the killer disappear into when they’d found Ninette’s remains. They hadn’t found anything then, either—but maybe there was a reason for that. Isabela scanned the walls and floor with heightened scrutiny; her eyes lingered on a suspicious crack in the floor, and suddenly she felt like the world’s biggest idiot. “I’m guessing this leads somewhere,” she said, kneeling down and fingering the camouflaged latch of the trapdoor. 

“This wasn’t here before,” Hawke said, shaking her head. She was probably thinking the same thing Isabela was—how had they missed this? “Mother must be down there—with _him_.”

Isabela flung the trap door open and prepared to descend, glancing up at Hawke with a look of feral anticipation. “Let’s go get the bastard.”

***

It was just inside the lair that they found the body, after dispatching the shades and demons guarding the entrance. She was laid on a bench, facing the wall; Isabela knew right off that it wasn’t Leandra—just didn’t look right—but Hawke rushed over, all the same.

“Alessa,” Hawke breathed. When she turned back, she almost looked ashamed of the relief evident on her face. It was that poor woman they’d rescued from Gascard, only it looked like they hadn’t rescued her as well as they’d thought. She didn’t appear to be missing any limbs, like they’d found years ago, but her clothes were dotted with little spots of blood, where something sharp and thin had punctured the fabric—and her flesh. It wasn’t clear what had killed her, but she was definitely dead. 

There was another body on a table nearby, covered by a sheet. Aveline held her arm out to stop Hawke from approaching, taking it upon herself to check. She lifted the sheet and peeked under it, gagging as she all but threw it back down. She still looked a little green as she turned around and shook her head. 

That was where they found the first note. It looked like a page torn from a journal, some sort of research notes or something. 

_Wrong about this one. She didn’t have the power. Pretty feet though, small and dainty just like hers. Used quicklime to preserve them. Unsure whether texture of the skin is to my liking. Will try other methods._

“What would he want with her _feet_?” Merrill asked, her eyes wide with horror.

“I think it’s best not to think about that, Kitten,” Isabela said quietly, keeping her eyes on Hawke. 

The discovery of the bodies had done something to Hawke; her muscles were so tense she was trembling almost constantly, her eyes darting around frantically in search of clues. She didn’t say a word as she set off again, heading deeper into the killer’s lair. 

It was the smell that stopped them the second time. Like a butcher’s shop in the height of summer—one that hadn’t disposed of their refuse for weeks. Isabela prided herself on her iron stomach, but this was enough to make her a bit queasy. Merrill—poor thing—actually lost what little booze she’d imbibed earlier at the Hanged Man. Upon reflection, Isabela thought it might have actually improved the smell of the place. 

They found Leandra’s locket not long after, portraits of Bethany and Marian in either side, still intact. Leandra must have found the strength to fight back or something; the locket was discarded on the ground, the latch snapped open. Near that was the next note.

_Mharen...it's a pretty name. I saw her hands. Long, slender fingers, masking the true strength within them. Fair skin—the hands of a lifelong scholar. Mistress always refused to touch me, said I wasn’t worthy. I’ll prove her wrong. She’ll touch me now. With these hands, she’ll finally touch me._

“Sick bastard,” Aveline spat. 

“’Mistress’…” Hawke said softly, looking up at Aveline. “Is he—or, or _was_ he—confessed?” 

“You’d know better than I, Hawke,” Aveline replied, shooting a wary look toward Isabela and Merrill. Isabela scoffed at it—like they had any clue what the flaming Void Hawke was talking about. “I don’t see that it matters, anyway,” Aveline continued. “I don’t care what he was, or what he is—all I care about is what he’s about to be, and that’s dead.” 

The grim smile that grew on Hawke’s face was a chilling sight. “You’re right,” she agreed, letting the note flutter to the ground. “Let’s get on with that.”

They descended down the stairs into a large room, where they were immediately set upon by another wave of shades and walking corpses. They were getting closer.

Once the creatures were disposed of, they were able to examine the room more closely. It was set up almost like a little home—a lavish canopied bed, an armoire, bookshelves arranged in an open circle, almost like walls, around a table and chairs. 

“Does he _live_ here?” Hawke sneered in disbelief.

There was a letter poking out from one of the books on the ground; Isabela picked it up and scanned it. “Someone at the Circle knew about this?” she said, frowning. She recognized the paper; Bethany had written her a few letters over the years, all with the same mark on the stationery. Hawke moved to Isabela’s side, silently reading for herself as Isabela looked more closely at the book it had been tucked into. Necromancy—it figured. 

“Who?” Hawke breathed, the paper rustling in her shaking fingers. It was addressed to someone named Quentin—the killer, most likely—and signed simply “O.”—no name, no other identifying characteristics. 

“Hawke.” Merrill’s voice was thin and wavering. 

Hawke turned to see what Merrill was looking at, her eyes widening as she took in the sight. “What…is this?”

“It’s…it’s a shrine,” Merrill said hesitantly, as though it weren’t obvious. A vase of white lilies sat next to a portrait of a woman—a remarkably familiar woman. 

“That woman in the portrait looks like Leandra, doesn’t she?” Aveline mused, to no one in particular.

“If I ever do anything this pathetic, do me a favor and stick a dagger in my eye,” Isabela joked, trying to ease some of the tension. It didn’t work.

“We need to find her,” Hawke choked out. “Now.” 

As she followed Hawke and the others out of the room, Isabela snatched up the next note, lying out on the table.

_Today is the anniversary of the day my life changed forever. Had hoped to complete my work before now, but one piece is missing. Have her skin, her hands, her eyes…those eyes, that never looked on me in love. They will now. Once I find the last piece._

_When I see it, I'll know. I would know that face anywhere._

Creepy. Isabela shuddered, dropping the note to the ground. The world would be a better place without this madman.

They were closer than they thought; as the turned the corner in the next hallway, they began to hear a low voice talking in stops and starts. 

_”I wasn’t worthy before, Mistress, but I am now. Can’t hurt me anymore, no you can’t. We can be equals now, you’ll see. You’ll see and you’ll love me like I always loved you.”_

The voice grew louder as they approached another stairway. Over the ledge they could see the slumped figure of a woman in a white dress, propped up in a chair while a twitchy, gray-haired man in mage robes paced back and forth, occasionally reaching out to adjust some bit of her clothing. 

“Is that…” Isabela murmured. 

“No,” Hawke said, quiet but firm. “No, it’s someone else. Mother’s somewhere else, somewhere safe.”

Isabela felt a wave of something almost like pity rush over her. “Of course,” she said softly, looking away so that Hawke wouldn’t see the lie on her face. That was another thing—when had she started lying to protect people’s feelings? What was Hawke _doing_ to her?

The man looked up as they approached, his eyes glittering with madness. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” he said, a grim smile touching his lips. “Leandra was so sure you’d come for her.”

Hawke’s hands flexed at her sides like she was itching to attack, but she didn’t reach for her daggers as she took a step forward. “Where is she?”

Quentin glanced down at the figure seated before him; the chair was faced toward him, so Isabela couldn’t make out who it was—not that she needed any confirmation. “You don’t understand.” He shook his head, his smile growing into a crazed sort of grin as he looked back up at Hawke. “You can’t possibly. You’ve only seen one side of it. You can’t know what it’s like.”

“You’re crazy,” Hawke bit out, taking another step forward. Her hands flexed again. “I get it. Where’s my mother?”

“Not crazy,” Quentin laughed. “No, I’m saner than you. I’ve felt it. Been there and back. I spent years trying to uncover the secrets, but nothing worked. Not until I found the Shurkia.” 

Aveline followed his gaze to a nearby table, on which were laid out an array of sharp rods. “What in flames are those?” 

“They allow me to see,” Quentin said, scooping one up and running a fingertip along its length. “To feel. Her power can’t touch me anymore. I’ll bring her back and we can finally be together.”

“Your Mistress is dead,” Hawke said, disdain and confusion warring in her voice. “You have your freedom, and this is what you do with it?” 

“Free, no.” Quentin shook his head again. “She was my freedom. My freedom and my prison. There is nothing so freeing as total devotion. No thought but her desire. You can’t know.”

“Hawke, he’s clearly mad,” Isabela said uneasily, shifting her grip on her daggers. “Just kill him and get it over with.” 

“Do you know,” Quentin said sharply, pinning Isabela with his gaze, “what the strongest force in the universe is?” When Isabela rolled her eyes in response, he narrowed his own. “Love,” he said. “I have known a love that you cannot imagine, a love so deep I lost myself in it—and I have done the impossible: I have returned from that abyss.”

“Congratulations,” Isabela said in a bored voice. “Now you can visit the Void and see how it compares.”

Hawke held up a hand to stop Isabela from further comment. Her entire body was tense and trembling as she took another step closer. “What…what did you do?” 

A grin lit up his face, and he knelt before the figure in the chair. “I pieced her together from memory,” he said reverently, reaching out to stroke a pale cheek. “I found her eyes, her skin, her delicate fingers—so fragile, but holding such power.” There was something disturbing about the way he spoke; adoring, yet bitter at the same time. “And at last…her face. Oh, this beautiful face. I searched far and wide to find you again, Mistress. And no force on this earth will part us.”

“I won’t ask you again,” Hawke said coldly. “Where. Is. My. Mother?” 

Quentin just laughed, stepping back as the figure in the chair began to twitch. It rose with jerky movements, slowly turning around to face them. Leandra’s face was still recognizable, even with cold dead eyes and stitched-together skin. She—it—stared blankly at them as it began to walk toward them.

“No,” Hawke gasped. She was beyond trembling now—she was downright _shaking_ , like a ship running aground on a reef. 

“Hawke,” Aveline called out, panic rising in her voice. 

“NO!” It was a scream this time—a bone-chilling, desperate sort of wail as Hawke fell to her knees and doubled over.

“Merrill, Isabela, get back!” Aveline warned, grabbing at them and pulling them away from Hawke. “Find cover!”

“Are you crazy?” Isabela yanked her wrist out of Aveline’s grasp. “She needs _help_!” 

Quentin was summoning demons now; they were popping up all around Hawke, closing in on her huddled form. They were joined by skeletons and corpses, rising from the corners of the room where they’d been discarded. 

Aveline shook her head, trying again to pull Isabela back. “None of us can help her right now,” she said, a pained look on her face. “Trust me!” 

Isabela shook her head in disgust. “Bloody coward,” she spat. As Aveline dragged Merrill behind the stairs, Isabela turned around to join the battle.

Hawke had risen to her feet, her arms outstretched and trembling. Despite the demons all around, her focus was entirely on Quentin. Isabela rushed up beside her, taking out a shade or two along the way.

“I’ve got your back, Hawke,” she said reassuringly, daggers raised to hold off the creatures.

When Hawke turned, though, it wasn’t a look of gratitude on her face. Her eyes had gone completely black, blood-red veins painting the skin around them in a morbid design. Her lips were curled into a feral snarl, almost like a wolf going in for the kill. This…this wasn’t Hawke. Not anymore. 

That was all Isabela was able to process before something unseen slammed into her. She fell to her knees as the power ripped through her veins, invaded her mind. Her last conscious thought, unlikely as it was, was that she should have bloody well listened to Aveline.


	7. Chapter 7

Everything was red. Blood pounded in Marian’s ears, pulsed through her veins, carrying with it a rage deeper than she’d ever known.

A woman knelt before her. Something tugged at Marian’s insides, some small hint of recognition, but she couldn’t pin it down through the haze of her anger.

“Command me, Mistress.”

That strange something pulled at her again—a voice in the back of her mind, whispering that the words should bother her, that the devotion shining in those eyes was out of place, but Marian shoved it aside.

“Stay back,” Marian growled, not bothering to watch and see if the order was obeyed. This woman didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the twisted creature with her mother’s face, stumbling toward her while the coward who created it stood back and watched.

The demons and corpses swarming around her barely registered. A Rage demon grasped at one of her arms, blistering her skin with searing heat, and she laughed. Its fury was a pale shadow of her own. A shade was next, its grip cold and dark, and Marian shrugged it off. No darkness could match the bloodlust that had consumed her.

Gradually, the horde thinned. Marian didn’t care how or why, only that every creature that dropped away from her, whether to a thrown dagger or a spell, was one less thing standing in her way. She brushed past the morbid construct, her focus entirely on the mage.

He laughed, full of a bravado that she yearned to rip from his chest. “You haven’t been paying attention,” he said, his tone patronizing. “Your power can’t hurt me.”

A grin spread slowly on her lips as she raised her hand. She could almost taste his blood on her tongue, full of arrogance and madness. “Want to bet on that?”

Her voice held a deadly calm—a stark contrast from the power that erupted from her outstretched palm, arcing out toward his chest. It resembled lightning, blue and crackling, but it was more than that; this was power in its purest form, and there was no defense for it.

The mage’s steel-gray eyes went wide as the magic seared through him. In moments he crumpled to the ground, those eyes staring blank and lifeless from his dead body. Without his magic to hold them, the creatures he’d summoned collapsed or dissipated, leaving Marian with the only creation that meant anything to her.

It was cobbled together from the corpses of who knew how many women, animated only by the darkest of magics, but still all Marian could see was her mother’s face. She fell to her knees before the limp form, gathering it into her arms and rocking back and forth as grief threatened to overwhelm her rage.

When the body twitched in her embrace, Marian jerked away, looking down in shock. Foreign eyes stared up at her, but behind them she recognized her mother’s warmth. She wasn’t yet gone.

“Mother!” Marian choked, the red haze receding from her vision.

“I knew you would come,” Mother gasped, raising some other woman’s hand to caress the side of Marian’s face. “You were always the best of us.”

“Don’t move, Mother,” Marian insisted as tears ran hot down her cheeks. She hadn’t even noticed them start to fall. “We’ll find a way to—”

“Shh, don’t fret darling.” Mother’s voice was fading, losing strength, but her lips curved into the hint of a peaceful smile. “I’m going to be with my Malcolm again.”

“You can’t,” Marian sobbed. “I need you here. I can’t do this without you.”

“Of course…you can.” Mother’s hand fell away from Marian’s face, and her eyes fluttered on the verge of sliding shut forever. “You’re strong. So…proud of you.” She forced her eyes open one last time, looking deep into Marian’s own. “Take…care…of Bethany.”

Marian could feel the instant the life bled out of her mother, leaving her clinging to a hollow shell. A wrenching sob tore from deep in her chest, scraping like sandpaper in her throat. She wasn’t aware of anyone approaching until she heard a meek voice, thick with emotion.

“Mistress?” Grief piled upon grief as Marian looked up to see tears streaming down bronzed cheeks, amber eyes wet and pleading. “Please, Mistress, what can I do?”

***

Aveline bit back a curse as she nearly stumbled on yet another loose cobblestone. The first thing she was going to do once this killer mage business was all cleaned up is write a strongly-worded letter to the viscount about the quality of his city’s streets.

She didn’t usually have trouble traversing the stairs and alleyways of Kirkwall; as a guardsman, and a soldier before that, she was well trained in keeping her footing in less-than-ideal circumstances. Of course, she also wasn’t usually supporting nearly all the weight of a full-grown woman, either.

Hawke had been near-catatonic since they’d left Quentin’s lair. She hadn’t said a word, barely even seemed to notice the steady flow of tears down her face. The only time she’d made any sort of indication that she knew what was going on was when Isabela tried to help; she’d flinched away, her face screwing up in despair and guilt and grief, and Aveline had been forced to point out that though Hawke hadn’t voiced a command, her actions sent a clear message—Isabela needed to keep her distance. 

There hadn’t been much opportunity over the years to observe the effect Hawke’s power had on people. In fact, since Wesley, Aveline didn’t think she’d seen Hawke use it on anyone—she always reached for her daggers first.

Now that she was witnessing it first-hand, Aveline could understand perfectly why Hawke had always been so careful. It was unnerving, the way Isabela kept fawning over Hawke, following close behind and watching for any sign of an instruction. It was as Hawke had always said, how Leandra had explained it to her all those years ago: once confessed, Isabela ceased to care for anything beyond Hawke’s happiness, Hawke’s desire, Hawke’s will. 

It wasn’t the Isabela that Aveline knew—and, not that she would ever admit it out loud, she’d actually come to _like_ the poxy tart. To think that she could be truly and completely gone was…unfathomable. 

Then again, she could say the same for Leandra. While she hadn’t spent nearly as much time with the Hawke matriarch as she should have, Aveline still treasured the small moments—when she would pop by to check in on things and end up sharing a cup of tea with Leandra while Hawke slept the morning away, or when Hawke was off on her latest adventure and she’d sit in front of the fire and listen to Leandra’s hopes and fears for her daughters. Over the years she’d come to regard Leandra as a kind of surrogate mother figure, one that was far more comfortable and real than the vague flashes of memory she had of her own mother. 

Grief surged in Aveline’s throat, sharp and bitter, and she choked it back. There would be time for her to mourn later; right now, Hawke needed her to be strong. Maker, someone needed to be. 

It seemed to take ages, but they finally reached the door to Hawke’s estate. It was cramped with all of them huddled in the small entryway, especially with Isabela hovering so close to Hawke. Luckily, Bodahn flung the door open almost before Aveline’s knuckles made contact with the wood. 

“You’re back,” Bodahn noted, his already worried eyes growing wider as he took in the state of Hawke’s appearance—the angry bruises and torn clothing, cheeks swollen and stained with tears, the charred edges of what used to be her sleeve, now burned away to expose red and blistered skin. “My word, what’s happened?” he gasped, stepping aside to usher them into the house. He peered past them, as if hoping to find someone else close behind. “Where is Mistress Amell?”

A strangled cry shook Hawke’s shoulders, and Isabela started forward, hands raised as though to embrace her. Aveline shot Isabela a warning glare, squeezing tighter at Hawke’s waist. “Leandra—” Aveline’s throat seized; she set her jaw and tried again. “She won’t be coming back,” she said gruffly. 

“Oh,” Bodahn said quietly. “I—I’m so sorry to hear that. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, you just let me know.”

Hawke was still trembling, her eyes distant and unfocused. It would take a miracle for her to get any rest tonight, and if she did…

“I don’t suppose you’ve got some tea in the kitchen?” Aveline asked. “Something strong, good for sleep.”

“Well, I’d have to take a look around, but I’m sure I can come up with something. I’ll bring it right up,” Bodahn replied, turning quickly to go check.

“I think I can help,” Merrill offered meekly. It was the first time she’d said anything since leaving Lowtown; Aveline had nearly forgotten she was with them. “There are Dalish recipes for sleep tonics, ones that can keep you from dreaming. It’s one of the ways we keep our mages from being possessed.” She wrung her hands, shifting from foot to foot. “Anyway, I know a few that don’t require anything too rare. I’ll go along with Bodahn and see what I can do.”

There were a million question swirling in Merrill’s eyes—she must be confused, having just witnessed what she had without any sort of explanation—but the elf seemed to understand that now wasn’t the time for answers. Aveline nodded gratefully at her before turning her focus to getting Hawke up the stairs.

When they reached the landing, another sob tore from Hawke’s throat. Flames. How could she have forgotten that Leandra’s door was positioned right at the top of the stairs? Aveline held Hawke tighter, urging her the last twenty feet or so to her own bedroom door. 

Once she had managed to get Hawke situated on the edge of her bed, Aveline had a chance to examine her more closely. It was obvious, of course, that emotionally the woman was shattered; Aveline was more concerned about the more immediate physical injuries. 

Injuries she wouldn’t know the full extent of while Hawke was still dressed—and Isabela was watching everything with that same desperate, worried look on her face. 

“Isabela.” An uneasy feeling churned in Aveline’s stomach as the pirate turned to look at her without a trace of sarcasm or inappropriate thoughts. “I need to assess Hawke’s injuries. Why don’t you wait outside?”

“But what if she needs me?” Isabela asked, fixing her gaze back on Hawke. Maker’s breath, she looked like a flaming mabari pup begging at the heels of its master. 

Aveline sighed. “I’ll come and get you. I promise.”

She still didn’t look convinced—not until Hawke raised her head, focusing her bloodshot eyes on Isabela. “Please,” she croaked.

It wasn’t a detailed order—it would never fly on the battlefield, Aveline knew that much—but Isabela seemed to accept it. She made her way to the door, looking back over her shoulder with a look that was equal parts concerned and dejected before closing it behind her.

Hawke put up little to no fight as Aveline gingerly pulled off her clothes, trying to avoid touching anywhere that she knew would be painful. Her lack of modesty was disturbing; Aveline hadn’t had much cause to be in any state of undress with Hawke lately, but she remembered traveling with her all those years ago, and staying with her briefly in Gamlen’s house. Hawke had always been shy about changing her clothes around others; now, she hardly seemed to notice that her smalls were the only thing keeping her from being completely nude.

Aveline swallowed a gasp as she took in the sight. The flickering firelight illuminated pale skin marred with countless reminders of their battle; bruises dotted her ribs, her left forearm was blistered and weeping, and she even had a few long, jagged cuts from the crude swords some of the skeletons had been wielding. A large, discolored splotch covered her right shoulder, and a brief memory flashed through Aveline’s mind; a memory of peering around the corner, horror flooding her chest as she saw Isabela on her knees—a horror that grew exponentially when she looked past Isabela to see Hawke in the midst of a horde of creatures grasping and clawing at her. There was a shade, she remembered, that had managed to latch on to that very shoulder until Isabela had come to her—limited—senses and thrown a dagger at it, breaking its grip.

This would take more than a simple poultice or healing potion; as wary as Aveline was of the man—abomination?—this called for Anders. She’d have to get Isabela out of the way first, though. Hawke had already been forced to confide her secret in Varric, and now Merrill would need to be brought into the loop as well. The more people who knew about Hawke, the more danger she was in—as evidenced by what had happened to her mother. In any case, Aveline just plain didn’t trust Anders. He had a good heart, she couldn’t argue that, but his obsessive dedication to his cause made him a danger. She’d prefer if they could get through this without giving him potentially incendiary information.

“Hawke,” Aveline said gently, helping Hawke into a soft, loose nightgown. The eyes that met her own were a pale, broken shadow of their normally vivid blue. “I’ve got Merrill and Bodahn working on some tea for you, so you can sleep,” she explained. “I’m going to go get Anders, so he can take a look at you—don’t look at me like that, you need healing and you know it,” she chided when Hawke opened her mouth to protest. “But first, I’m going to take Isabela to Varric at the Hanged Man. He knows her better than most of us, and he knows about your power. If anyone can handle looking after her when she’s like this, he can.”

Tears that had finally run dry began welling up anew, and Aveline pulled Hawke into a careful embrace. She had no idea what to say to Hawke, to make any of this better—mostly because she was sure there wasn’t anything she _could_ say. 

After a few moments, Aveline pulled away, resting her hand on Hawke’s uninjured shoulder. “Let’s get you into bed.”

Hawke wearily complied, working her way up the bed and under the blankets with Aveline’s assistance. Fatigue was evident in every movement she made, but her eyes were wide and alert, glimmering in the warm firelight. Sleep wouldn’t come to her on its own tonight, that was for sure.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Aveline promised. 

When she opened the door, Merrill was standing behind it poised to knock. “Oh! Aveline, you startled me,” Merrill said, putting her hand to her chest as she caught her breath. “Bodahn is working on that tea, so I thought I’d come up and see if I could help with anything.”

“Actually, you can,” Aveline said, glancing back at Hawke’s trembling figure reclining against the pillows. “I’ve got to go get Anders, so he can help with the worst of her injuries. It would help Hawke, I think, if you were to sit with her until we get back. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Of cour—”

“I can do that,” Isabela cut in, stepping forward from where she’d been leaning stiffly against the wall by the door. “I’ll make sure she gets anything she needs.”

“You are exactly what she _doesn’t_ need right now,” Aveline snapped. 

Isabela’s eyes filled with desperate tears. “I just want to make her happy,” she said, pushing past Aveline to enter the bedroom. “Mistress—”

Aveline whirled around, closing a strong hand around Isabela’s bicep. “You’re coming with me, so Varric can keep an eye on you.” She was getting testy, she knew; her patience was wearing thin, and the evening’s events were starting to take their toll. “The last thing she needs right now is to deal with you on top of everything else.” 

“But I need to—”

“So help me, whore—”

“Aveline, stop,” Hawke managed weakly. Both voices fell silent, and pain flared in Hawke’s eyes as she fixed them on Isabela. “Go with her, Isabela,” she said gently. “I want you to.”

Just like that, the fight left Isabela. She nodded almost sullenly as Aveline took her arm once more, gentler this time, and led her out of the estate.

Flames. It was quite the mess they’d found themselves in this time.

***

Guilt nibbled at the edges of Isabela’s stomach as she followed behind Aveline at a safe distance. She didn’t know if she should be doing this; it clearly hurt her mistress to see her, but she’d also instructed her to go with Aveline—and technically, that was just what she was doing.

Varric had tried to keep her at the Hanged Man, but she’d slipped out when he’d been ambushed by some official or other from the Merchant’s Guild. Aveline had said she was going to fetch Anders, so Darktown was where she had headed first. She’d caught the Guard Captain leading the healer out of his clinic, and stayed on their tail all the way back up to Hightown.

She wasn’t disobeying, not really; she was doing precisely what her mistress had told her to do. It didn’t hurt that she’d be able to see the woman again. Isabela had never known such deep, encompassing love before. She would do anything to be near her mistress, to make her happy. Some small voice in the back of her head whispered that she should be disturbed by this feeling, but she disregarded it out of hand. This love was the best thing that could have happened to her. 

Aveline didn’t seem to agree, however, which was why Isabela kept to the shadows as Aveline and Anders entered the estate. Once the door closed behind them, she crept around the side of the house, looking for a familiar set of what appeared to be random loose bricks, but were in actuality very useful handholds. They led to a ledge right outside of her mistress’s bedroom, where she lurked out of sight while she waited for Aveline to leave. 

It took a while; first Aveline sent Merrill away, telling her to go talk to Varric but not mentioning why. Then Anders drew the blankets aside so he could examine her mistress; a couple of times she saw a flash of longing in his eyes, and had to curl her hands into fists to keep from bursting inside and tearing his hands from her mistress’s skin. It was a new feeling, jealousy, and strange. She’d never cared before about what any of her lovers did when she wasn’t around; but then, she’d never loved anyone quite like she loved her mistress now. 

Finally Anders left, and Aveline sat next to Isabela’s mistress, drawing a dark messy head down onto her shoulder and holding her close. Isabela longed to be able to comfort her mistress this way—or any way at all, really. Despite her urge to rush in and try to make it all better, Isabela kept her distance; if she barged in while Aveline was still there, her mistress would no doubt be swayed to send her away again. Instead she waited, and listened. Their voices were muffled through the window glass, but she could still make out their words.

“I’m a monster.” The simple declaration held so much grief, so much disgust, that Isabela ached to hear it.

“No you’re not,” Aveline replied firmly. “You made a mistake. You were dealing with something horrific and you lost control. It could happen to anyone.”

“ _Anyone_ isn’t a confessor, Aveline. Isabela…” A choked sob. “She’s gone. Forever. She’s there, but she’ll never be Isabela again.”

“You don’t know that for sure. There might be a way.”

A bitter laugh, teary and resigned. “Centuries, Aveline. Confessors have been around for centuries, and no one has found a way to reverse confession without—” She broke off, her voice cracking. “The only way she’ll ever be free is if I die.”

Panic fluttered in Isabela’s chest at the mere thought of her mistress’s death. She very nearly abandoned her plan to avoid Aveline, but before she could charge in Aveline herself beat her to it. 

“Don’t you dare even think about that,” Aveline said harshly.

Her mistress shook her head, shoulders sagging even further. “I love her.” The words filled Isabela with warmth, despite the pain that infused them. “I’ve been in love with her for years, and I’ve always known it couldn’t happen. She’s not even interested in things like that, and I couldn’t be with her without destroying her.” She laughed again, this time more bitter and self-deprecating. “Now it’s gone and happened anyway. I can’t imagine a world without her in it. I don’t want to. Even if she were gone, off on some new adventure, at least she would be Isabela.”

Aveline sighed. “I don’t know what to say, Hawke. This isn’t anything remotely like anything I’ve ever had to deal with before. But you know I’m on your side. We’ll figure this out. Somehow.” 

Nodding weakly, her mistress allowed Aveline to guide her back under the covers. “You look exhausted, Aveline,” she murmured. “You should go home and get some sleep.”

“I don’t have to,” Aveline offered. “If you’d rather not be alone—”

“I’ll be all right. As all right as I can be, anyway. I think Merrill’s tea is starting to work.”

“If you’re sure.” Even after the answering nod, Aveline lingered for a moment, waiting until Isabela’s mistress was settled before backing toward the door. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

Isabela waited until she heard the distant sound of the front door closing before she worked her fingertips between the windowpanes, deftly undoing the catch of the lock. The barely audible click went unnoticed by the figure lying in bed, as did the soft creak of the window as it slid open to allow Isabela entrance.

Her mistress was turned away from her, but Isabela could still see the defeated slump of her shoulders, the gentle shaking of her frame as she quietly cried. Isabela felt tears sting at her own eyes, and she didn’t hesitate any longer to crawl into the bed, pressing herself against her mistress’s back with one arm securely slung over her waist. 

The gasp that her actions provoked reverberated through Isabela’s ribs. Her mistress turned sharply in her arms, panic flitting through her eyes before turning to relief, then pain. “Isabela. What are you doing here? I told you to go with Aveline.”

“Well, I did,” Isabela said. “I went with her to the Hanged Man, then I followed her to Darktown, then here.” She felt a surge of pride at the hint of a smile that tugged at her mistress’s lips, but it faded as tears glittered in fathomless blue eyes. “I thought you would want this, Mistress.”

“Don’t—don’t call me that.” Those eyes Isabela loved so much turned away as her mistress spoke in a strained voice.

“I’m sorry,” Isabela apologized quickly. She never wanted to cause her mistress pain. “What should I call you?”

“Hawke,” was the answer, strangled and wet. “Just call me Hawke.”

“Hawke,” Isabela repeated. It didn’t seem enough to encompass everything she was to Isabela, but if it was what she wanted, that was all that mattered.

A choked sob spilled from Hawke’s lips as she met Isabela’s eyes again. Her hand came up to rest against Isabela’s face, warm and trembling. “I never wanted you to change for me.”

Isabela frowned, even as she leaned into Hawke’s touch. “But I love you. You…you wanted that, didn’t you?”

“Not like this,” Hawke said, shaking her head. Her thumb stroked at Isabela’s cheek, wiping at the tears that had begun to fall. “I’m so sorry, Isabela.”

She didn’t know what to say to that; in Isabela’s mind, there was nothing for Hawke to apologize for. Loving Hawke made more sense than anything else ever had. Lacking words, Isabela just tugged her closer, pulling Hawke’s head down to rest against her shoulder. Hawke tried to fight it, at first, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to resist for long. Isabela pressed a kiss onto Hawke’s temple as she stroked soothing circles into her back.

An arm slid hesitantly over Isabela’s stomach as a yawn escaped Hawke’s lips, turning into a weary, humorless laugh. “It’s terrible,” she murmured, her breath hot and moist against Isabela’s chest. “I’ve spent the last few hours agonizing over what I did to you, I’ve barely thought about what happened to M-Mother.” Her voice caught on the word, and Isabela squeezed her tighter. 

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” she said softly into Hawke’s hair. “I can’t imagine how it must hurt.” 

Hawke inhaled deeply, her fingers toying with the laces at the side of Isabela’s bodice. “You never talk about your mother,” she said. “Are you close? Or—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask that, not with you...” 

“Shh,” Isabela murmured, her fingers sliding up to scratch gently at Hawke’s scalp. “You can ask me anything,” she assured. “My mother and I were never what you would call close. She taught me things—how to survive on the streets of Llomerryn, how to con gullible tourists into giving me all of their coin…I looked up to her.”

Isabela never talked about this part of her past, not with anyone, but as she spoke, she could feel the tension start to relax in Hawke, could feel her breathing start to even out. If it made Hawke happy—or at least calmed her—it was worth reliving the pain. 

Besides, she had Hawke now—and that made everything hurt just a little less.


	8. Chapter 8

The smell was different. Sharper, harder, less sweet and more sour—blood instead of whiskey, the leather mingled with dirt and decay. The palm resting on her stomach was tentative, the breath against the back of her neck nervous and quick. 

It was different, yet unmistakably Isabela. Her breasts that pressed against Marian’s back, her arm cradling Marian’s head, her legs that had tangled with Marian’s in the night. Her thumb that was stroking back and forth over Marian’s belly in a way that was probably supposed to be comforting, but was dangerously close to causing another reaction entirely. 

Tensing, Marian rolled over to face Isabela. The shy smile and concerned glint in amber eyes looked so completely out of place; Marian’s heart didn’t know whether to flutter or break. 

“How are you feeling?” Isabela asked gently. Her hand reached to tuck a strand of sleep-mussed hair behind Marian’s ear, sending a shiver through Marian with a feather-light caress of her cheek.

Marian inhaled shakily, beating back the storm of conflicting emotions rising in her chest. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she preemptively sniffed them back. “My head hurts,” she admitted finally; it was a far simpler problem to focus on.

“Should I go get you some water?” Isabela offered, her hold on Marian loosening. “Or—I know where Bodahn keeps his stash of elfroot, if that would help?”

Before Isabela could pull away, Marian found herself reaching up to keep her close. “No,” she said softly. “Stay.”

It was selfish. Marian knew Isabela would never offer comfort like this under normal circumstances, but the guilt and grief and pain was just… _too much_. Against her better judgment, Marian shifted closer, tucking her head into the curve of Isabela’s neck.

“Does this please you?” Isabela murmured, resting her cheek against Marian’s head. There was a desperate edge to the question, a need to know that went beyond curiosity. Because of her, Isabela’s whole world now revolved around what Marian wanted—and Marian had been less than forthcoming with what that might be. 

Keeping her arm wrapped around Isabela’s waist, Marian pulled back to meet her eyes. “It’s…complicated,” she said, her breath catching as she realized how close they were. She shouldn’t want to lean in and close the distance, shouldn’t dream of exploiting her control over Isabela any more than she already had—but surely there was no harm in just one kiss?

That was all she intended—one kiss. One tiny infraction, one last something to savor before she pulled away and set her mind to figuring out her next step. But Isabela’s lips were soft and full, and she moaned happily when Marian brushed her own over them. It wasn’t Isabela that moved to deepen the kiss, but Marian could hardly help herself from pressing further, not when it seemed to make Isabela so _happy_ to finally have something to do for her—something she knew how to do so well. 

She was eager to display all that skill Marian remembered, her mouth moving against Marian’s with a passion that far surpassed that night in the alley. It was all familiar, the feel and taste of Isabela, and it was all too easy for Marian to forget that this wasn’t really Isabela at all. 

It was easier still when Isabela pushed against her, rolling their bodies so that strong thighs bracketed Marian’s hips. Isabela’s boots had been discarded in the night, and when Marian’s hands reached up only to meet warm, bare skin, she groaned. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Isabela without her boots, for all the woman’s talk about how much fun it was to be naked. 

Isabela’s touch seared into Marian’s skin through the thin nightgown, fingertips dragging down her sides, then up over her stomach to tease at her breasts. There was a confidence in Isabela’s actions that had been missing ever since she’d been confessed, but somehow it was still…wrong. This wasn’t about Isabela’s pleasure—she wasn’t taking, the way Marian had always expected she would; she was giving something Marian had no right to accept.

Marian broke the kiss, turning her head away in shame at what she’d almost done.

“Hawke?” Isabela asked carefully, sitting back on her heels. Her hands left Marian’s body to rest on her own thighs, and Marian didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Marian assured her. “It’s nothing you did, I just…I can’t.”

“It’s all right, you know,” Isabela said, raising an eyebrow. “I want to. I wanted to even before all this.” 

For a moment, she was almost like the Isabela that Marian remembered; it made Marian’s chest ache. “I know,” she said with a sad smile. “But this—it’s not right.” She reached up to cup Isabela’s cheek, forcing herself to look into eyes that would never look at her with that brazen mixture of defiance and mischief ever again. “This isn’t you.”

Frustrated tears welled in Isabela’s eyes as she shifted to rest back at Marian’s side. “I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I wish I could give you what you want.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Marian said, fighting tears of her own. “I’m the one who should be sorry. It’s my fault this happened. All I want is for you to be _you_ again, but that’s…” She shook her head. “The Isabela I knew is gone.”

“What if that’s a good thing?” Isabela asked. “Before, all I thought about was myself, what I wanted—coin, sex, that damned relic—and I’d do anything to get it. I was a lying, thieving snake.” Bitterness tinged her voice, and Marian wondered how much of it was due to her power. Isabela had always seemed so self-assured—had she really thought of herself that way? “Loving you, it’s made me a better person. I have a purpose now—I have you.”

“You only think that way because you’ve been confessed,” Marian forced out. She lost the battle with her tears, and they spilled over onto her cheeks. She wanted more than anything to somehow fix this, but she had no idea how—she didn’t really think she could.

Mother would have known what to do. She’d been the one to take care of that girl in Lothering that Carver had confessed, told him exactly what instructions to give, down to the letter—as far as Marian knew the girl was working as a lady’s maid in Amaranthine now. She couldn’t do that with Isabela; sending her away would be the same as signing a death warrant, with Castillon still hunting her and her priorities all skewed. 

But Mother couldn’t help her now, or ever again. Marian breathed in sharply as the previous night’s events flashed through her mind. Bile rose in her throat at the memory of Quentin’s creation—her mother’s face sewn onto a body cobbled together from who knew how many others. 

She had to get out of here—had to _do_ something. Maybe Aveline would have some ideas about Isabela, and…and Bethany needed to be told about Mother. She couldn’t lounge in bed all day and pretend none of it had happened—especially not with Isabela next to her as a constant reminder. 

Marian slipped out of bed, digging through her wardrobe to find clothing and armor. The torn, bloodied stuff she’d worn last night was nowhere to be found—probably Aveline’s doing. She started to tug off her nightgown, but she could feel Isabela’s concerned gaze still burning into her.

“Could you, ah,” Marian fumbled awkwardly, “close your eyes?” 

Isabela complied immediately, and Marian tried not to think of how the pirate she knew would have sneaked a peek, or made teasing comments about her modesty. This definitely wasn’t going to be easy.

***

“Visiting a mage in the Gallows is only done by appointment,” Knight-Captain Cullen said firmly.

“Please,” Marian replied. “I only need to see her for a few moments.” 

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “There is a reason we have rules in place, Serah Hawke. You have been helpful to us in the past, but that doesn’t grant you special privileges.” 

“I know.” Marian swallowed thickly, looking down at the ground. “I don’t expect that.”

“What’s so urgent, anyway?” Cullen asked. “You could see Bethany within the week if you went through the proper procedures.” 

That was too long. The news would be all over Kirkwall by then. “Our mother died,” she said, her voice cracking a little. “She was murdered.”

The Knight-Captain gasped softly. “I—I’m sorry to hear that.”

It was the truth; Marian was surprised to see that the man who’d torn her sister away from her family actually did have sympathy for them. One thing she could say about living in Kirkwall—it had forced her to admit that templars were just as human as anyone else. 

“It was…bad,” Marian said, clenching her hand into a fist at her side. “Very bad. But the rumors are bound to be even worse. She should know the truth, and I’d rather she hear it from family.” She looked imploringly at him. “Please. I wouldn’t ask if it was anything else.” 

Cullen sighed, glancing around the courtyard. “Come with me,” he said with a reluctant gesture. “I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Marian fidgeted anxiously as she waited in the Knight-Captain’s office. She’d been by to visit a handful of times since Bethany was taken, but it had always made her nervous—and while the visiting rooms were heavily guarded, there was something thoroughly different about being in the heart of the templars’ headquarters.

From the look on Bethany’s face when she walked in the door, her sister was just as wary of it—although she wasn’t flinching away from Cullen’s hand around her arm. Marian narrowed her eyes. Was Bethany simply used to being led around by templars, or was it just the Knight-Captain that she was so comfortable with?

She didn’t get long to ponder it. Bethany’s eyes lit up when she saw Marian waiting for her, and Cullen’s hand dropped away as Bethany rushed forward to pull her into a warm embrace. 

“It’s been so long, Sister,” Bethany said, smiling as she pulled back to glare playfully. “You need to visit more often,” she chided, poking Marian gently in the stomach. 

A wan smile touched Marian’s lips. “I do,” she agreed, sinking down into one of the chairs in front of Cullen’s desk. “But I—I’m not just here for a visit, Bethy.” Her throat tightened as she looked down at her hands, clenched together in her lap. 

“I gathered that,” Bethany said warily, sitting in the chair opposite her sister. She reached across to cover Marian’s hands with one of her own. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Mother,” Marian forced out. She looked past Bethany to meet Cullen’s somber gaze, and he nodded.

He cleared his throat, looking at them both apologetically. “I can’t leave you two alone in here,” he said, his eyes softening a little as he turned them on Bethany. “But I’ll give you as much privacy as I can. I’ll be over here when you’re finished.” 

Marian watched as he crossed to the other end of the room—it was a small distance, but the gesture was appreciated—not to mention curious. She turned back to her sister, whose cheeks were stained a pale pink. “Be careful,” she murmured. The last thing she wanted was for Bethany to know the same pain she was facing right now—especially since Bethany slipping up would mean her death. 

Bethany smirked, her blush deepening. “I know what I’m doing,” she replied softly. “Now what’s this about Mother?”

***

It wasn’t a huge surprise that Bethany wasn’t as distraught by Mother’s death. They had always had a tense, complicated relationship because of Carver—a far cry from the close bond Marian had shared with her. Still, though she wasn’t crushed by the news, Bethany was still shaken—especially with what Marian had been able to convey about the killer’s motives through quiet, carefully vague words. The Knight-Captain had tried to assure them privacy, but she had no doubt that if he caught on to what they were, there would be no more sympathy.

“I hope you killed the bastard,” Bethany said harshly, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

Grief swelled in Marian’s throat as she remembered those moments—and the consequences. “I did,” she said, the words barely a whisper. 

Bethany frowned, squeezing Marian’s hands gently. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this than just Mother?”

Marian inhaled a wet, shaky breath as she tried to think of how to put it into vague enough terms. “I-when we found them, Mother and that…that monster,” she began, clenching her hands together even tighter, “I was so angry—like you were after Carver.” She met her sister’s eyes pointedly. 

Bethany nodded, her eyes widening with comprehension and dread.

Glancing anxiously toward Cullen, Marian searched for the right words to explain what came next. “I…did some things I shouldn’t have,” she said, her heart clenching with shame and grief. “It’s…Isabela’s gone,” she finally forced out with a sob. Bethany’s gasp twisted her gut. “Not dead,” she added quickly, with another wary look at the templar in the room, “just gone.” 

In seconds, she was swept into a fierce hug, Bethany’s arms tight around her. “I’m so sorry, Sister,” Bethany murmured. “I wish I could bring her back.” 

Marian clung to her sister’s waist, burying her face in the shoulder of Bethany’s standard-issue Circle robes. “We both know there’s no way.”

“Perhaps,” Bethany replied thoughtfully. “But you never know.”

Pulling away, Marian shot Bethany a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe if someone wrote her a letter.” With her back to Cullen, Bethany mouthed the word “library”. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Of course—the library in the Circle would be a font of knowledge about magic, even if the more dangerous stuff was kept out of the hands of the mages. There may be a history tome or something that might contain the key. Hope swelled in Marian’s chest, but she shoved it back down.

“Thank you, Bethy,” she said sadly. “But I won’t get my hopes up.”

“I, uh, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Cullen said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “But I should get Bet—er, Enchanter Bethany back to the Circle. I’ve taken a risk just bringing you both here in the first place.”

“Of course,” Bethany replied quickly, reaching to grasp Cullen’s hand with a grateful smile. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have liked to find this out through some apprentices’ gossip.” 

“You’re welcome,” the Knight-Captain replied, his own cheeks flushing a bit as he reclaimed his hand, moving it up to circle her bicep. “Serah Hawke, I trust that you can see yourself out.” 

Marian nodded, giving her sister one last wary glance. _Be careful, Sister._

***

Aveline was waiting when Marian returned home. After she’d left the night before, she had collected Merrill and Varric from the Hanged Man and gone back to the lair under the foundry. She’d wanted to get rid of anything that could incriminate Marian or her family—namely, anything involving confessors—before sending her guardsmen in to clean it all up.

What they’d found made Marian’s stomach roll uneasily. Aveline had told her that from what they’d pieced together, Quentin had once been a common criminal. He’d used his magic to evade the templars, as well as to corner unsuspecting targets out walking at night—mostly women—and take their valuables. Then, one night, he’d chosen poorly—his target had been a confessor, and his free will was taken. She’d taken responsibility for him, but never let him forget her disgust with who he had once been. Decades later, she’d fallen ill and wasted away before Quentin’s eyes. 

When she finally died, Quentin was freed from her power—but he’d spent decades bound to her will, loving her more than his own life. It shattered something in his mind, twisted it. He’d become obsessed with the idea of bringing his mistress back to life, but this time they would be on equal footing—he’d stumbled upon a set of old Tevinter artifacts—the Shurkia—that his notes claimed were used to create the first confessors in the time of the Imperium. Using them, he’d somehow found a way to make himself immune to a confessor’s touch—and he’d intended to use them to transfer the power of a living confessor into his creation, once he’d finished. 

Marian shuddered. He would have targeted more women, after Mother—perhaps even her, or Bethany. She had done the right thing—the only thing—by killing the madman, but she couldn’t help but feel ashamed as well. It had been a confessor’s power that had driven him to what he had become. She’d never been so sickened by her own nature. 

A strong hand dropped onto her shoulder, jarring her from her thoughts. “For what it’s worth, Hawke, I owe you an apology,” Aveline admitted somberly. “I never really believed you about the killings. I should have.”

Reaching up to cover Aveline’s hand with her own, Marian offered her a weak, encouraging smile. “It probably wouldn’t have made a difference,” she said. “He’d been dodging templars and guards for years.” 

Aveline nodded. “You have my apology nevertheless,” she said. “Is there anything you need? I have to get back to the barracks, check in on the official investigation. But I can arrange to have Merrill or Varric come by, if you’d rather not be alone, with…” She glanced to the doorway to the library, where Isabela was watching from a distance.

Marian shook her head. “I’ll be all right,” she said, trying to make herself believe the words. “Well, as all right as I can be. I can handle it.”

“If you’re sure,” Aveline said, eyeing Marian skeptically. She reached over to pull Marian into a quick hug before rising from her seat. “I’ll come by when my shift is done and fill you in.” 

Isabela shrank back as Aveline brushed past her on the way out of the library. Marian laughed in spite of herself. “You can come in, Isabela,” she said. As Isabela crept in, Marian narrowed her eyes. “You’re not afraid of Aveline, are you?” She scoffed at the very idea.

“I don’t want her to take me away again,” Isabela answered with a shrug, her fingers picking at the edge of the writing desk. “Unless…unless that’s what you want.” 

Sighing, Marian pushed herself to her feet. “No,” she said, moving over to Isabela’s side. “I won’t send you away again,” she promised. 

Amber eyes peered up through dark lashes, hesitant and unsure. “So what are you going to do with me?” 

Marian’s mind raced as she reached toward the desk, stroking the back of Isabela’s hand with her thumb. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “We’ll have to figure that out.”


	9. Chapter 9

Marian sighed, examining herself in the mirror as she rubbed her hair dry with a towel. She looked less haggard today—that was something. Her eyes were less bloodshot, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the circles under them had faded a shade or two.

It had only been a few days since the confrontation with Quentin—since Mother’s death. It felt like longer. Nearly every day of her life, Marian had awoken to her mother cooking breakfast, or sitting by the fire. Without her, everything seemed disjointed…wrong. 

Isabela’s presence didn’t help. Marian had given her the guest room nearest to her own bedroom, as it was the option that made Isabela look the least like a kicked puppy, aside from letting her stay in Marian’s own room—and that was more than Marian could handle. Isabela had hovered for the first day or so, looking for ways to serve her, and finally Marian had given in and listed some household chores she thought Isabela might be handy at. She hated treating Isabela like a servant, but she didn’t know what else to do—if she didn’t give Isabela any orders at all, the lost, aimless expression on her face made Marian feel even more guilty.

So they had settled into a routine, of a sort. Bodahn still did the cooking and most of the cleaning, and Isabela took over mending clothes—every sailor worth a damn knew their way around a needle and thread, as Isabela had pointed out—and whatever odd jobs either of them could come up with. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was workable. Until Marian could figure out another solution, at least. 

They were both seated in the front room—Isabela mending a pair of trousers that had ripped during Marian’s latest visit to the Bone Pit, Marian looking over the latest batch of letters from townspeople requesting her help with something or other—when a knock came at the door. Marian looked up, her brow tightening in confusion as she saw who Bodahn was leading in. 

“Sebastian,” she said, her surprise evident in her voice. She looked nervously at Isabela, who was watching the newcomer suspiciously.

Sebastian Vael had been a casual acquaintance over the years; Marian had helped track down the mercenaries that killed his family, and more recently to uncover the person who had hired them. He’d offered his help with anything she might need, but Marian was wary of spending too much time around someone so closely affiliated with the Chantry—whether he decided to stay with them or not. As far as she knew, the Chant itself didn’t speak of confessors, but she’d always figured it was better safe than sorry.

Still, he had always been kind; she’d been glad to help him, and not only for the coin that had helped pay her way onto Bartrand’s expedition. Why he would be here now, however, she had no clue. Some new quest?

“Hawke,” Sebastian greeted with a polite nod of his head. “I apologize if I’m intruding,” he said, noticing Isabela’s scrutiny.

“Not at all,” Marian replied quickly, before Isabela could say anything. She turned to the other woman. “Ah, Isabela, I think there are more things that need mending upstairs in my bedroom. Why don’t you work up there for a while?” 

Her eyes made it clear that it wasn’t as much a question as a command—she’d tried to keep Isabela’s contact limited to as few people as possible, to avoid inconvenient questions about her behavior finding their way to the templars’ ears. 

Isabela gathered up her sewing things and stood, pausing by Marian’s seat. “If you need me…” She hadn’t had much interaction with Sebastian, and it seemed that Marian’s own wariness of the man had rubbed off on her. She looked uncomfortable at the thought of leaving them alone together.

“I’ll call for you, I promise,” Marian assured. Relief trickled into her chest as Isabela disappeared up the stairs. 

When she turned back, Sebastian had a small, confused frown on his lips. “She seems…different than I remember,” he said slowly. 

“Well, Isabela’s always been unpredictable,” Marian said with a tight shrug and a forced laugh. “What can I do for you, Sebastian?”

He sank down into the chair Isabela had just vacated, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Actually, I was hoping I could do something for you,” he said gently. “I heard about your mother. I wanted to extend my condolences.”

By now, Marian had grown accustomed to the endless stream of well-wishers coming by to offer insincere apologies and attempts at sympathy; it was refreshing to see the honest intent in Sebastian’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said with a sad smile. “I appreciate it.”

Sebastian folded his hands in front of him, looking down briefly as he considered his next words. “I know it’s early yet,” he began, “but have you thought about what you might want to do for a service? I would gladly preside over it, if you’d prefer someone who knew her, even just a little. I know your family has never been frequent visitors of the Chantry.”

Marian’s smile turned into a wry smirk; it was hard to believe in the Maker when you could trace your lineage back to a weapon created by a man who was anything but divine. Her smile faded, though, as she considered his question. “I don’t know how that would work, to be honest.” Her throat tightened. “I mean, well…” she swallowed roughly. “There couldn’t really be a proper cremation.” Her mother had ended up in so many pieces; the body Marian had clung to in her grief belonged to more than just her. 

“I…have heard rumors,” Sebastian said, wincing sympathetically. “Perhaps it could be a combined ceremony? I could contact the families of the…other victims.” 

“That would be wonderful,” Marian said, taken aback by his generosity. “But why would you go to so much trouble?”

“Please, Hawke.” Sebastian smiled. “You’ve helped me more than I can ever repay you for. Even if I never claim my place on the throne, you gave me closure—and there’s no price on something like that. If I can help you to find some closure of your own, it would be a grievous sin for me to refuse.” 

For a moment, Marian just studied him. “You really believe in it, don’t you?” she asked. “The Maker, the Chant, all of it.”

He nodded. “I do.”

This was stupid; she shouldn’t even be thinking questions like these, let alone considering asking someone who could so easily turn on her if he knew the truth. She didn’t even believe in it…but she still found herself wondering. “So you believe that everyone will go to the Maker’s side, when they die?”

“If they have truly repented of their sins, all can find their way into His light, yes,” Sebastian confirmed. “I’m sure your mother is sitting in a place of honor at his side,” he said with a reassuring smile.

“And what about…” _People like me?_ “People like Quentin? Is there anyone too far gone, too tainted to be saved? Are there sins that even the Maker can’t forgive?” 

Sebastian considered that for a long moment, choosing his words carefully. “What he did to your mother and those other women…it’s unfathomable. I can’t imagine what would inspire someone to such twisted deeds.” 

That wasn’t really an answer. Marian’s heart pounded in her chest. “What if someone…made him the way he is?” she asked hesitantly, thinking of what Aveline had told her. “What if he had reason to be angry, to lash out the way he did?” 

“I…don’t know, Hawke,” he finally said apologetically. “I don’t think a man capable of such deeds could also be capable of remorse, regardless of his reasons. _He_ made the choices, _he_ did the deeds. I can’t see him ending up anywhere but the Void.” 

Marian looked down, fiddling with the letters in her lap. “What of the person who drove him down that path? What becomes of them?”

Sebastian opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated when he noticed her unease. “Is there something on your mind, Hawke?” he asked gently, reaching out to rest a hand on her forearm. 

She flinched away, drawing her arm back on reflex. “Just wondering,” she said, shaking her head. “My mind seems to be dwelling on unhappy things lately.” 

“Well I won’t force you to dwell any longer,” Sebastian said kindly, rising to his feet. “I’ll get to work contacting those other families. And if you ever want to talk…”

“I know where to find you,” Marian finished with a feeble smile. “Thank you, Sebastian.” 

With a polite nod, Sebastian turned and left, leaving Marian to sit and brood over her letters. One that she hadn’t gotten to yet peeked out from the middle of the stack, a folded piece of yellowed parchment. She frowned. Most of her correspondence came in envelopes, often smelling of Orlesian perfume; the nobles in this city really were incapable of handling their own affairs. 

Marian pulled the note out, resting it on the top of the pile. The word “Hawke” was messily scrawled across the front; the only indication it had even been delivered to the right place. Inside, there were two abrupt sentences.

_Heard you were on the lookout for the pirate’s lost relic. If you’re interested, be at the docks at noon._

Blinking, Marian refolded the note. She hadn’t expected a response this soon. She’d asked Varric to keep an ear to the ground, since Isabela wasn’t quite in a position to do so herself; it wouldn’t do for Castillon to come calling and find Isabela empty-handed, particularly when she was…not quite herself. 

She would have to investigate. The sun spilling through the windows on the second floor wasn’t quite at its peak, so she still had time to get to the docks. 

Once she figured out what to do with Isabela. With a sigh, Marian rose from her seat, dropping the rest of the letters back on the writing desk. The note, she refolded and tucked into the belt of her house robes as she made her way up the stairs. 

Isabela looked up as Marian walked in, a somewhat stricken look on her face. “I couldn’t find the mending you were talking about,” she said worriedly. She was kneeling before Marian’s wardrobe, with clothes piled neatly around her. 

Marian sighed, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “There isn’t any,” she admitted.

“Oh.” Isabela frowned. “Why did you say there was?” 

“I couldn’t let Sebastian find out about you.” Marian felt frustration leaking into her voice, and she struggled to hold it back. “About your…condition.” 

“You…you seem upset,” Isabela said carefully, rising to her feet. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, I just—” Marian faltered. Flames, this was such a mess. Her guilt was still raw and fresh from her conversation with Sebastian, and the confusion and devotion on Isabela’s face wasn’t making it any easier. She knew that Isabela was gone, that this wasn’t her—why must she be constantly reminded? “Maker’s breath, I wish you’d just go steal something!” Marian finally burst out, her frustration reaching its boiling point as she paced. “Or get drunk at the Hanged Man and cheat someone at cards, or—or have meaningless sex at the Rose, or _something_!” 

Tears stung hot at Marian’s eyes, and she turned to the fireplace, covering her face with her hands. She didn’t see what Isabela’s reaction to her rant was; she only heard quick footsteps make their way to the door. She backed up toward the bed, sinking down on the edge and rubbing at her eyes. Lashing out like that had been wrong; she was angry at herself, and taking it out on Isabela wasn’t fair. 

She would have to apologize—but noon was getting closer, and she still had to make it all the way down to the docks. With a sigh, she stood and moved over to the piles of clothing Isabela had left behind, picking out something that would adequately intimidate whoever this contact turned out to be. 

Isabela was nowhere to be seen as Marian left her room and headed down the stairs. The door to her bedroom was closed; she was probably sulking, or else hunting for some chore to do that would appease Marian’s misplaced anger. Marian fought back the urge to seek her out and apologize right away; finding this relic could save Isabela’s life—she would worry about Isabela’s hurt feelings later.

***

The man who’d sent the note was a slim, rat-faced elf that practically reeked of dishonesty. Marian would be surprised if he’d ever said anything completely true in his life. He was telling the truth about the relic, though—and that was the important part.

“Heard some of the men talkin’ about some shipwreck a few years back,” he said, picking at the dirt under his fingernails with a cheap dagger. “Something about some Qunari book? Guy called Wall-Eyed Sam is real interested in it—says he’s gonna track it down and sell it to the highest bidder.” 

Marian sighed, shaking her head. It would figure that she wouldn’t be able to get away from the Qunari drama, even when she was investigating something she thought was entirely separate. Nothing could ever be simple. “Do you know where I could find this Wall-Eyed Sam?” 

He shrugged. “Maybe I do.” When Marian narrowed her eyes, he shook his head. “You know, Sam’s saying anyone who helps him find the book will get a cut of the profit. He says it’s real valuable.” 

“Of course,” Marian replied, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes as she reached into a pouch hidden inside her vest, pulling out a few gold sovereigns. She pressed them into his dirty outstretched hand, holding tight so that he couldn’t pull it back. “If you hear anything, I trust you’ll fill me in?”

The elf nodded, pulling his hand back and looking down at the coin in his hand. His eyes widened as he looked back up. “If you’ve got coin like this to throw around, why do you care about some dusty old book?”

Marian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s not about the money,” she said simply.

He shrugged. “Long as it gets me paid. I find anything out, you’ll be the first to know.”

***

“Hawke.”

Marian stopped, turning toward the voice. “Fenris.”

The elf was leaning against one of the stone pillars in Hightown, his green eyes burning into her with an intensity even more chilling than normal. His expression was stoic, as usual, but she could practically feel his anger. As he stalked toward her, she could swear the white lines on his arms glowed a little. 

“What have you done to Isabela?” he demanded. He always did get right to the point. 

Marian took a step back, her mind racing. How did he know? “What…what do you mean?” she asked, trying for a casual, friendly tone and falling miserably short of her mark. 

His eyes narrowed. “Do not insult me by pretending you know nothing,” he sneered. “I passed her in the street not long ago, rushing away from the Blooming Rose.”

Oh, that wasn’t good. Marian froze. “She was outside?”

“She was upset,” Fenris replied through gritted teeth. “Distracted. I asked her what was wrong and she would say only that you had asked her to do it, but she only wished to be with you.”

Flames. Had she taken Marian’s ranting seriously? If so, where was she now? “This is bad,” Marian muttered, mostly to herself. She had to find Isabela, but where to start looking? She wasn’t at the Rose, Marian could deduce that much. Maybe the Hanged Man? 

Before Marian could rush off, a gauntleted hand clamped down on her arm. The look on Fenris’s face when she turned sent chills down her spine. “Is it a love potion? Blood magic?” he snarled. “I know you are grieving, but there is no excuse for using magic to bend another’s will.” 

“I—I didn’t…” Marian breathed in, panic rising in her throat. “It’s not that simple.” 

His hand didn’t loosen. “Explain it to me anyway.” There was more than anger in his eyes—there was a genuine concern for Isabela’s welfare. 

“I…didn’t know you cared so much,” Marian said softly. 

“She is…my friend,” Fenris forced out, as though the concept were foreign to him. It probably was. “I do not have many, and I will not stand to see one of them abused.”

Marian sighed. “Fenris, I promise you that hurting Isabela is the last thing I want to do.” Tears pricked at her eyes, and she rubbed at them with her free hand. “It’s…it’s a long story, but please, I need to find Isabela. You can come along if you want—I certainly won’t stop you. But she may be in danger.” 

Fenris studied her for a moment, then finally his hand fell away from her arm. “Very well.” He nodded. “When I saw her, she was heading that way.” 

He was pointing down the street that led to Marian’s estate. Without another word, she rushed off, hoping against hope that Isabela had gone home.

***

Relief crashed over Marian like a wave as she burst through her front door to find Isabela sitting at the writing desk in the front room, focused on whatever was in front of her. Marian caught glimpses of brown paper and the glint of light off of metal.

“You’re here,” Marian sighed, her heart still pounding as the adrenaline faded. Isabela turned and smiled when she saw Marian, then frowned.

“I hoped to have them wrapped before you got home.” Turning back to the desk, Isabela picked up the objects she’d been trying to package in the brown paper and held them out to Marian.

They were beautiful daggers. Fine, leather-wrapped hilts, ornately jeweled scabbards. Marian pulled out free, admiring the razor-sharp steel. Then her eyes fell on the pommels, each decorated with the Harimann family crest. “Isabela…”

“I did what you asked,” Isabela replied with a tentative smile. “The smith had these lying around; with all the chaos going on right now, I doubt the Harimanns will even miss them.”

“You really shouldn’t have,” Marian shook her head, fighting not to smile; it felt comfortable chiding Isabela over doing illegal things again, even if she knew it was only on her instruction.

Isabela’s hands drifted to her waist, fingers drumming anxiously against her hips. “I went to the Hanged Man, but Varric wouldn’t let anyone play cards with me, or serve me a drink.” She peered up at Marian through her lashes. “And I went—”

“To the Blooming Rose, I know,” Marian finished with a sigh. She set the daggers aside, reaching for Isabela’s hands. “I won’t ask you to do any of that again,” she promised. “I’m sorry, Isabela. I should never have lost my temper with you in the first place. I was angry with myself, not with you.” Inhaling deeply, Marian reached to cup Isabela’s cheek, locking their gazes. “And I want you to know that no matter what else I say, I want you to be safe,” she said, her voice shaking. “I don’t want you risking your own life or well-being just to please me.”

Relief softened Isabela’s features as she nodded, and Marian smiled as she felt her own panic calming. Then she remembered that she hadn’t returned home alone.

Her shoulders tensing, Marian turned to meet Fenris’s angry glare. “I suppose it’s time for an explanation.”


	10. Chapter 10

The door had stood shut for three weeks. Mother’s service had come and gone, and Marian had found reason after reason to avoid this, but she couldn’t put it off any longer. She rested her forehead against the wood, her hand clutching the doorknob as she tried to muster the strength to turn it. 

She never stopped missing her mother, but there were times when she felt the loss more keenly than others. Today had been one of those times; watching Anders lose control and almost kill that poor girl in the Gallows, seeing the senseless rage in his eyes…it had all struck far too close to home. 

How many more friends would she lose to her rage? Isabela had been the first, but Marian knew how quickly it could happen, how it felt to have her control slipping from her grasp, to barely recognize the people she cared for most. What would it take for her to succumb again—and who would be caught in the crossfire next?

Mother would have known what to say; something about duty and justice, no doubt, but Marian knew it would have made her feel better. That was why she was here, now. She couldn’t get her mother back, but perhaps she could find some solace in surrounding herself with Mother’s things. 

Gathering all of her willpower, Marian turned the knob and pushed the door open. The room was exactly how Mother had left it—the bed neatly made, water still in the pitcher on the vanity. Mother’s slippers still sat at the foot of the bed, waiting for feet that would never step into them again. 

Marian sniffed back tears as she closed the door behind her and walked slowly to the bed, sinking down onto the edge of it. She didn’t know what she was looking for here; the room was empty and lifeless, with no trace of the peace that her mother used to be able to instill in her. All she felt was even more alone. Grief choked up her throat, and Marian hugged her arms to herself as she let out a desolate sob. It seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, reminding her over and over that Mother was never coming back. 

There had to be something still left of her in here, some small piece hidden away. They hadn’t had many mementos when they came here—escaping the Blight had necessitated packing light. Marian desperately searched her mind for something, anything that she could remember Mother holding dear. 

Rising from the bed, Marian made her way around the room, riffling through drawers and cabinets. There was all the jewelry Mother had bought over the past couple of years, as well as some old family heirlooms that had managed to survive the slavers’ occupation, but Marian felt no connection to any of it—certainly not to the family Mother had known before. As she continued her search, she found Bethany’s letters from the Circle, tersely written and brief, and several unanswered invitations to dinner parties at the houses of various nobles. Mother had tried to keep them out of the public eye as much as possible, only making appearances when it was necessary to throw off suspicion.

That left Mother’s clothes, and her books. Marian ran her fingers over the dress Mother had worn on their journey from Ferelden; tattered and stained, Mother had only kept it as a reminder of everything they’d gone through to get here. Marian’s vision blurred with yet more tears; there was no comfort there, only a reminder of everything she’d lost. 

The books, though…Marian wandered over to the bookcase, examining the titles. Books on history and politics, some of Varric’s less colorful works…and a volume on Orlesian High Fashion? Mother had enjoyed dressing up, but Marian hadn’t thought it went so far as actual intellectual study. Curious, she pulled the book from the shelf and opened it up.

She gasped at what she found inside. A hollow had been cut out of the pages, rectangular and just large enough to hold a small, leatherbound book. She gently pried it out of its hiding place with a fingertip, turning it over in her hands. There was nothing written on the cover, no author or title. When she opened it up, the breath flew out of her lungs.

If she were looking for something of her Mother, she’d found it. The pages were filled with a familiar elegant script, neat and precise and whispering with her mother’s voice. She moved back to the bed, folding her legs beneath her as she flipped through the book. 

There weren’t a lot of entries; it wasn’t a daily journal, which would explain why Mother had managed to keep it a secret all these years. Marian skimmed an entry about Carver’s death, grief and pain echoing in every word. Bethany should see this; she might think a little better of their mother. 

Further on, Marian’s eyes stopped on a page detailing the conversation she’d had with Mother years ago, about Father. It was brief, but the letters were etched deeply into the paper, as though Mother had struggled as she wrote it.

_Marian asked about Malcolm today. I wondered how long it would take before I would have to explain. I just wish I could tell her all of it, the whole truth. It pains me that she can’t know._

What truth was Mother talking about? Marian frowned, turning more pages and scanning the entries more quickly. She skipped past an entry about Bethany being taken to the Circle, and a rant or two about Gamlen’s blackmail, before she found the next item of interest.

_My little girl is in love. I’m not sure she knows it yet, but I can see it in her eyes, in everything she does. I want to comfort her with the truth about her father and I, but I fear the result. The person she loves, this pirate…she’s a good woman, though she tries not to be, but I’m afraid she may not be capable of the depth of love required to overcome our power. Telling Marian would only cause her more pain, at best. At worst, she would be reckless, and end up destroying the woman she loves._

_I told Marian, years ago, that the reason her father was not confessed was because of a deal he’d made with that twisted magister. I couldn’t tell her that the magister refused his deal, that Malcolm had held me close when he told me of it so I wouldn’t see the lie in his eyes._

_It was his love that protected him—his love for me and later, his love for his children. Our powers were useless against him, because he would already have done anything in the world for us. Such a love is rare, and I count myself lucky every day to have felt it—but I grieve in the knowledge that my daughters are unlikely to ever be so fortunate._

Marian didn’t think her heart could break any further, but she felt it shatter into dust as she read her mother’s words. She’d always known Isabela could never love her back, not truly. It had made it easier to resist her advances, knowing that what she really wanted was out of reach regardless of her power.

And Marian had taken it from her anyway, taken Isabela’s love and her free will along with it. Tears poured down her cheeks as she closed the book, clutching it to her chest. It was all she had left of Mother, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

***

The visitors’ rooms at the Gallows provided far less privacy than in the Knight-Captain’s office; one long table ran the length of the room, with narrow paths around either end for the mages to enter and sit down on their side. Two templars guarded the door, and more lined the walls on either side of the table.

Marian sank down into a chair across from Bethany, trying her best to smile but failing miserably. Bethany reached across to grab her hand—slowly, so as not to alarm the templars—and squeezed it gently. 

“How are you holding up, Sister?” Bethany asked, her brow tight with concern. 

“It’s…difficult,” Marian replied carefully. “I’m still not used to Mother being gone…and Isabela.” 

Bethany sighed, regret shining in her eyes. “I’ve tried, but my…letters have gone unanswered.”

She hadn’t found anything in the library, then. Disappointment curled in Marian’s stomach, heavy and leaden. “It was worth a try,” she said sadly.

“Perhaps,” Bethany started, choosing her words carefully. “Perhaps if someone else were to give it a shot.” Marian frowned, trying to decipher her meaning, and Bethany elaborated. “Merrill was close to her, wasn’t she?” She said, with emphasis on the elf’s name. “She might be able to…succeed where I’ve failed.” 

Of course. Marian felt like a fool for not thinking of it sooner. Merrill hadn’t been around much lately, presumably because she was working on that mirror of hers, but who better to find a way to reverse a power created by blood magic than a blood mage herself? 

“They _were_ close,” Marian said slowly, trying to stem the flood of hope that was rising in her chest. “I’ll have to pay Merrill a visit.” With that matter settled, Marian turned her attention to another matter that hadn’t managed to slip her mind—as much as Bethany might have hoped it would. “And how are things going around here?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Everyone…behaving themselves?” 

Bethany’s cheeks flushed pink as she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You worry too much. Everything’s fine here.”

“You’re my baby sister, Beth,” Marian said softly. “And you’re all the family I’ve got left. I’m always going to worry.” 

Rather than answer in words, Bethany just squeezed Marian’s hand again. Marian squeezed back just as tightly, wishing she could have the simple comfort of a hug but knowing the templars would strike her down if she tried. One day she would free her sister from this place, if she had to confess every templar in Kirkwall to do it. They would be a family again—one day.

***

When her first three rounds of knocking went unanswered, Marian tried the door to Merrill’s little home in the alienage. It opened easily; Merrill had probably forgotten to lock it again. She really was a bright girl, but so very absent-minded. Marian shook her head, a smile almost touching her lips.

“Merrill?” she called out, finding the front room empty. She approached the doorway to the bedroom to find Merrill bent over a small table by the bed. The torchlight glinted off of a familiar set of sharp metal rods. “Merrill, what—”

“Oh!” Merrill jumped, looking sharply up at Marian. “Oh, Hawke,” she breathed. She followed Marian’s gaze, and a guilty expression painted her features. “Don’t be mad,” she said, nervously wringing her hands. “I know I told Aveline I would destroy them, but I thought that maybe if I could see how they worked, I might be able to fix what happened to Isabela.”

Marian’s heart had frozen in her chest at the sight of the Shurkia, the memory of her mother’s body flashing before her eyes, but after a few moments, she was able to breathe normally again. Merrill had a point, after all. “I’m not mad,” she said. “Actually, that’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“Good,” Merrill sighed in relief. “I’m glad you’re not angry with me. Oh, look at me, babbling on when I have a guest. Can I get you anything? I have…water.” 

“Don’t worry about that, Merrill,” Marian said, stepping over to the table. She reached out, her fingers almost brushing one of the metal rods, before she drew her fingers back into a fist. “Do you really think there’s a chance?” she asked hopefully. “Of…of putting Isabela back the way she was?” 

Merrill bit her lip. “I think so,” she said. “I mean, I won’t know until I try, of course, and it will be complicated.” She peered up at Marian. “It…would involve blood magic,” she said hesitantly. “And I would need both of you for the ritual.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” Marian replied firmly. “If it will set Isabela right, I’ll do whatever it takes.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Are you sure about this?” Aveline asked, shooting a wary glance to the table where Merrill had the Shurkia laid out. “We’re talking about blood magic—using _your_ blood. ‘Dangerous’ is an understatement.” 

“That’s why you’re here,” Marian joked. It _had_ been the reason she’d asked Aveline to come—if this went wrong, and Merrill fell prey to a demon, someone needed to be prepared to strike her down. Marian sobered, her attempt at a smirk fading. “I don’t care if it kills me, Aveline,” she said, her voice shaking with conviction. “I have to make this right. I can’t—I can’t leave her like this.” 

A tentative hand came to rest at her elbow, and Marian looked up into familiar amber eyes. “Hawke,” Isabela said, her voice wavering. “I don’t want you to be hurt for me. I can’t bear the thought of it.” 

Marian turned, cradling Isabela’s cheek in her hand. It was the intimate sort of contact Isabela never would have allowed—and certainly never would now, if she remembered any of this—but Marian was allowing herself to be just a little bit selfish today. She sucked in a deep, trembling breath. “Isabela, you can’t stay like this.” 

“Why?” Isabela asked, her eyes shining wet with tears. “Am I not good enough? Have I done something wrong?” 

“No,” Marian said quickly, brushing the moisture from Isabela’s cheeks. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” she said firmly, feeling her own throat thickening. She laughed a little, hoarse and wet. “Maker, you’d be horrified if you could hear yourself right now.” Her heart clenched. “It’s just…this should never have happened in the first place. I just want you to be _you_ again.”

“I don’t want to go back to that,” Isabela insisted, reaching up to cover Marian’s hands with her own and squeezing tightly. “I only want to make you happy.” 

“This will make me happy,” Marian replied, tears stinging at her eyes.

Isabela’s chin trembled as she looked into Marian’s eyes. “Then why are you crying?” she asked pointedly, with a valiant attempt at a smirk.

Marian laughed, leaning in to kiss Isabela’s forehead. “Because I’ll miss you,” she admitted. “If this works…if you remember any of this, I doubt you’ll ever want to see me again.”

“Of course I will.” Isabela frowned. “I lo—”

“Don’t,” Marian said softly, pressing her finger to Isabela’s lips. She inhaled a wet, shaky breath as Isabela nodded numbly. “If-if you do remember anything, please remember that I never meant for this to happen. I would never in a thousand years want you to be anything other than who and what you are. And…” she hesitated, stumbling over the words. “And I love you.” 

“I—” Isabela’s lips moved against her finger, but Marian cut her off once more.

“Please,” she said softly, shaking her head. “Don’t.” 

Isabela nodded sadly, her shoulders slumping in resignation. 

“Thank you,” Marian said with a watery smile. For a long moment, she just took in the sight of Isabela, trying to commit her to memory. There was no doubt in her mind that if Isabela remembered being confessed, she would run as far and as fast as possible. This was probably the last time she would have this opportunity. 

She hoped Isabela wouldn’t begrudge her this, when all was said and done; she couldn’t resist indulging her feelings one last time. Shifting her finger aside, she replaced it with her own lips, drinking in the taste and feel of Isabela’s mouth. The kiss was wet and salty from the tears spilling down both of their cheeks. 

When the need for air finally became too urgent to ignore, Marian broke the kiss, gasping from both the lack of breath and the grief tearing at her chest. She looked away, unable or unwilling to see her own pain reflected in Isabela’s face. Taking a deep breath, she met Merrill’s gaze. 

“All right,” Marian said, wiping the moisture from her cheeks. “I’m ready.”

***

Merrill breathed slowly and deeply to calm her nerves as Hawke and Isabela settled on the floor side by side. This wasn’t a magic she was terribly familiar with; blood magic had never been her first choice in battle, since it required her to injure herself in order to attack. She’d also only ever used her own blood—using someone else’s felt wrong, like a violation.

Her own blood wouldn’t work for this, though—at least, she was pretty sure it wouldn’t. From what she’d been able to figure out about Hawke’s power, it lived in her—in her blood, in her life. It was that force that Merrill would need to manipulate in order to free Isabela from Hawke’s hold.

Aveline watched warily from the doorway, no doubt ready to strike her down at any moment. Merrill understood the reason for the precaution, but she’d sworn that she would never fail Hawke again; not by falling prey to a demon, at least. She pushed the thought from her mind, blocking out Aveline’s presence; she would need every ounce of confidence she possessed to pull this off. 

The metal rod was unnaturally cold, chilling Merrill’s fingers as she picked it up. With steady hands, she positioned it over Hawke’s wrist, pressing firmly until it punctured the skin. Hawke gasped, but remained still as Merrill had instructed. As the tool tasted blood, it grew warm, then hot—it almost seemed to glow. Quickly, she added the rest one by one, magic and instinct guiding her hands. She couldn’t say how she knew which rod to use on which woman, or where; she just _knew_. 

When the Shurkia had all been placed, Merrill sat back on her heels between Isabela and Hawke, holding one hand over each of their chests as the women fell into a deep sleep. The rods had barely pierced the skin, held in place by their own mysterious brand of magic; looking at her work, Merrill doubted there was very much blood at all to work with, but she could feel the power pulsing through her as though she’d spilled every drop. It was a heady, intoxicating rush, and she had to take a moment to steady herself before she continued.

With her eyes closed, Merrill could see the connection between the two women, strong and thick as an iron chain. She would need to break it, but she couldn’t do it from out here—she had to go _inside_ , to find the hooks embedded in Isabela’s psyche and slide them free, one by one. 

Merrill shifted so both hands were on Isabela, cradling her head. As the source of the power, Hawke’s presence and blood were required for the ritual, but it was Isabela that Merrill would need to focus on. 

She had only done anything like this a handful of times before, when other magic had failed her in battle; when she was too wounded, or she’d been separated from her staff. It wasn’t something she liked doing, invading someone’s mind—but if it got Isabela back, she would gladly do it ten times over.

Entering someone’s mind was strangely like entering their home; she saw pieces of their life, all the things that made up who they were. Darkspawn were all blood and carnage and caves, cast in sickly shades of black and violet. Templars were more complicated—grand halls and shining armor, all radiating gold and silverite while the Chant of Light echoed all around. 

In Isabela’s mind, Merrill thought to find deep, cool blue waters and white sandy beaches, chests overflowing with gold coins, ships and daggers and silk bedsheets. She wasn’t far off the mark; when her vision cleared, Merrill found herself standing on the deck of a grand, three-masted ship. A vast ocean stretched off toward the horizon on one side, while the other faced a small island—a sheltered beach at the mouth of a cave. 

The only thing was…it was all _red_ —the sky, the sun, the sand. The ocean churned like a sea of blood, lapping at the side of the ship and crashing against the shore, staining everything a darker red. Merrill felt an overwhelming sense of _wrongness_ about it all. It could have been the blood magic, she supposed—the Shurkia had increased the power and potency of this ritual far more than she could have expected—but something was familiar about it, this red that colored everything the eye could see.

It was _Hawke_. The second the thought flitted through her mind, Merrill knew it was true. It was more imposing, more aggressive than Hawke had ever been, but there was no doubt in her mind that Hawke’s power was the cause of this anomaly. 

Something flashed at the entrance to the cave—a glint of gold, out of place in the monochromatic landscape. She would have to enter the cave, she supposed, to get to the source of Hawke’s hold on Isabela. That left one very large problem, though: she had to get off of the ship.

“Creators,” she sighed to herself. “I’m a terrible swimmer.” 

It wasn’t as though she wanted to dive into this particular water, either, with its dark, churning waves with pink foamy crests. She wondered idly if her clothes could be stained by things she encountered in the Fade; red really wasn’t the best color on her.

She remembered, then, what it meant to be in the Fade. It looked as though she would have to swim several meters to get to the shore, but being a mage meant that she could alter the reality here to suit her needs. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself on the shore; when she opened them, she felt sand beneath her bare feet. With one last look at the ship, she turned and entered the cave.

Veins of light shot through the stone walls, bright and red. Occasionally, as Merrill advanced, she would see a small bit of blue or gold attempt to branch out toward the entrance, but the red quickly swallowed it up, guiding it back to the main path. Curious, she reached out to touch one of those branches before the red could catch up; it shone brighter, got further the more of her will that she fed it. 

Excited, Merrill withdrew her hand, moving faster through the cave. It was a fairly straightforward path; any forks she encountered were impassable, blocked off by walls of loose rock. After several minutes of walking, she reached her destination.

She hadn’t known for sure what she was looking for, only that she’d know when she found it. The room was little more than a hollowed out space in the rock, the walls unnaturally smooth and rounded. The veins of red light were thicker here, all spiraling toward the center of the alcove, where a large crystal glowed dimly. 

It was red, like everything else, but as she watched, Merrill could see swirls of blue and gold shimmering weakly, like the branches of light she’d seen in the walls. On instinct, she pressed her palms to the crystal, focusing all of her power into her hands. As the energy drained from her, she saw the crystal shine brighter, blue and gold glittering as they fought to overtake the red. 

For a long, terrifying moment, Merrill was afraid she wouldn’t have enough power. Then, as she began to feel her connection to the Fade, to Isabela, stretch and finally break, she saw the last bit of red fade from the crystal, veins of blue and gold streaming out toward the mouth of the cave. 

Merrill’s eyes shot open, blinking as she tried to process where she was. Her home in the alienage, familiar and safe. Relief flooded her chest as she slumped back against her bed. She was weak—getting weaker by the second. Fatigue threatened to overtake her, but she struggled to keep her eyes open, to see if she’d been successful. 

As she watched, her friends stirred from their slumber, sitting up and looking around in confusion. Then, all at once, Isabela stiffened, her eyes locking onto Hawke’s. Tension radiated from her frame. In one smooth movement, Isabela was on her feet, rushing out the door before Hawke could utter a single word.

Darkness clouded Merrill’s vision, but as she succumbed to her exhaustion, she smiled. She had succeeded—Isabela was back.


	12. Chapter 12

“There’s nothing physically wrong with her.” Anders sighed, stepping away from the bed where Merrill had lain in unbroken slumber for nearly two weeks. “Whatever injury she has suffered, it is isolated to her mind.” His eyes narrowed as he fixed them on Marian. “You never did say what happened.”

Marian hesitated. She’d already been forced to tell too many people about her power; adding another person to the list—one that she didn’t entirely trust, one that was likely to get himself arrested any day now, if not killed—was far riskier than she was comfortable with.

Looking down at Merrill’s pale form, Marian sighed. “She was performing a ritual,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I guess it took more out of her than she expected.”

“Blood magic.” Anders scowled. “I’ve told her for years that she was asking for trouble, that it was dangerous.”

“Anders, you’ve insulted her for years,” Marian corrected, rubbing tiredly at the back of her neck. “Demeaned her capabilities and berated her for her choices. I’m not surprised she didn’t listen to you.” She’d barely slept since the ritual, and what little rest she did get was slumped over in her chair beside Merrill’s bed. Her patience had been among the first things to decline. “Anyway, I thought you were fighting for freedom for _all_ mages—or did you just mean the good ones?” 

The healer crossed his arms, his scowl deepening. “I want mages to be free to live their own lives in peace—not to make deals with demons and become abominations.”

Marian pushed her chair back, pinning him with a heated glare. “So if someone has magic but doesn’t choose to use it the way you dictate, they shouldn’t be free?”

Anders sighed in exasperation. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“You’re right,” Marian said sharply. “I don’t think this is about blood magic at all. You’re just upset because being associated with a blood mage would hurt your cause.” 

It wasn’t fair, and Marian was fairly certain it wasn’t even true. If Merrill had flocked to his side and joined in the fight for mage freedom, she was sure Anders wouldn’t even blink an eye at whatever methods she might use to accomplish it. Marian was exhausted, though, and in no state of mind to be thinking before she spoke. 

“A cause you claim to believe in,” Anders shot back. 

A weary chuckle shook her frame, and she shook her head. “I do, Anders. Perhaps more than you.” 

“I doubt that,” he scoffed. “As much as I’d love to stay and continue this senseless argument, I’ve got patients that need tending. Perhaps even ones that will actually heed my advice.”

Marian sighed as she rested her arms on the mattress at Merrill’s hip. She dropped her head down onto them, not bothering to watch as Anders let himself out. What would he say, if she told him the truth? Would he think her worthy of freedom, like his precious mages? Would he still make nice with Bethany in hopes of gaining inside information on the Gallows, or would he be too afraid of her power? Marian wanted the mages freed as much as he, and not just because her sister was one of them. It was wrong to condemn someone for life due to an accident of birth—Carver had taught her that lesson, with the man he’d tried so hard to be. Magic was a tool like any other—any corruption was in the hand that wielded it. 

Blood magic was no different, Marian was learning, and Merrill…well, she couldn’t be corrupt if she tried. Not that it had stopped her from feeling the ill effects of her magic—magic she’d only had to use because of Marian’s mistake. Tears stung at Marian’s eyes as she reached for the elf’s hand and gently squeezed. She’d thought that finding a way to bring Isabela back to herself would alleviate some of the guilt she had over confessing her in the first place, but instead the source of the guilt had merely shifted. 

Merrill was pale and gaunt, her body still and lifeless on her bed. The only sign she was even breathing was the shallow rise and fall of her chest. The longer she went without waking, the more terrified Marian became that she never would. Had she traded the future of one friend for the life of another?

***

Marian didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until she found herself jerking awake at the sound of Merrill’s front door swinging shut. Squinting, she drew herself up in her chair and stretched out her back. It popped and creaked painfully; this around the clock vigil was certainly not doing her body any favors.

“Hawke,” Varric greeted, his voice weary and strangely tense. His eyes softened as they fell on Merrill. “Daisy still racking up insane amounts of beauty sleep? If she keeps this up, she’ll have to cover her face whenever she goes outside to avoid being mobbed by hordes of admirers.” 

“I’m sure you’d find some way to protect her,” Marian cracked with a sleepy smirk. “I doubt Kirkwall has any shortage of people who would jump at the opportunity to earn some coin by acting as bodyguard while Merrill wanders around town picking flowers from people’s gardens. You never know, she might not even get lost so often.”

Varric groaned, slumping against the door frame. “Don’t remind me. I still need to pay some people.” 

Now that she was more awake, Marian took a moment to really look at Varric. He had clearly been in a fight; his cheeks were stained with dirt and sweat, hair plastered to the sides of his face where it had escaped the leather cord tying it back—even his infamous chest hair was looking a bit on the matted side. Battle was par for the course with Varric, though; after all, he was the one who’d stopped a pickpocket from running off with her meager savings when they’d first met, by pinning the unfortunate thief to a Hightown wall with a crossbow bolt. 

What was worrisome about his appearance now was how _tired_ he looked. He was always calm, always laid back—but he was also always alert, his eyes flitting all around to be aware of any potential threats, or to see how his latest tale was being received. Now his eyes drooped, and there was a hauntingly familiar sort of grief hidden in them. 

“Are you all right, Varric?” Marian asked gently. “You look like you’ve seen better days.” 

Varric shrugged, taking a deep breath. “Bartrand,” he said simply.

The name alone was enough to send little ripples of anger through Marian’s muscles. “He’s back in town?” 

“In a manner of speaking,” Varric replied. He looked reluctant to elaborate; it was unusual, to say the least. He never could resist telling a good story, though—save for Bianca’s, which he still refused to discuss—and finally stepped farther into the room, sinking down into one of the rickety chairs Marian had dragged in from the front room. “I’d heard whispers from my contacts, so I went over there to have a little chat with him.”

“I wish you’d told me,” Marian said. “I would have been there.” 

“It’s fine.” He waved her off. “You had somewhere more important to be.” He nodded toward Merrill before settling back in his chair. “I took Aveline along, and Fenris. We had it covered.” 

“Judging from your appearance, I’m going to guess it didn’t go well.”

“You could say that.” Varric chuckled, but there was less mirth in it than usual. “I certainly didn’t expect a tear-filled reunion, but even I couldn’t have predicted the way this played out. You remember that statue we found in the Deep Roads?”

“How could I forget?” Marian raised an eyebrow. “That damn thing is the reason we were stuck down there so long. Did he at least get a decent price for it? I’d hate to have nearly died for some worthless trinket.” 

“Well, someone bought it—someone in Kirkwall, I assume, since he came back here. But whoever it was may have gotten more than they bargained for.” Varric sighed. “It’s more than a statue—it’s some kind of idol. It drove Bartrand mad—and I mean positively batshit, not just the usual insanity of thinking he knows better than me. The things he did…” he shuddered. “Death was more mercy than he deserved.”

Marian winced. “I’m sorry, Varric. That couldn’t have been easy for you.” 

He shrugged. “I just pulled the trigger. Bianca did the rest. Besides, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it a couple thousand times over the years.” 

A soft groan pulled both of their focus to the bed. It was the first sound Merrill had made since the ritual. Slowly, green eyes blinked open, and Marian had to force herself not to squeeze Merrill’s hand too hard. 

“Hawke?” Merrill mumbled, peering up with bleary eyes. Her lips turned up into a thin smile. “And Varric. What are you both doing here?”

“Just making sure you don’t get too much beauty sleep,” Varric teased. “Don’t want to make the rest of us look bad.” 

Merrill frowned. “How long have I been asleep?” 

“Almost a fortnight,” Marian replied.

“Oh dear.” Merrill’s eyes widened. Marian watched as it all came back to her. “The ritual! Oh, but it worked, didn’t it? Isabela’s back?” 

For a moment, Marian couldn’t respond. She hadn’t expected it to hurt so much, hearing Isabela’s name, but that was all it took for her heart to break all over again.

“Define ‘back’,” Varric said dryly.

“It worked,” Marian said, forcing a reassuring smile onto her lips. “She’s Isabela again, as far as I could tell.” She dropped her gaze to the mattress, still remembering the shock and horror and accusation that had flickered through Isabela’s eyes before she’d rushed out of Merrill’s house. “I haven’t seen her since the ritual.”

Chances were high that she’d never see her again—Marian didn’t expect Isabela would want to come anywhere near her now. 

“Actually, Hawke,” Varric said tentatively, “the Rivaini’s what I came to talk to you about.”

Marian frowned, her brow tensing. “What do you mean?”

“We passed your place in Hightown on the way back from dealing with Bartrand,” he explained. “There was some shady elf hanging around, waiting to give you some news—he’s got a lead on Isabela’s relic.” 

In the wake of everything that had happened, she’d nearly forgotten all about the relic. Now that Isabela was herself again, Marian imagined she’d be hot on the trail herself. Still, if she could help somehow, have a hand in ensuring Isabela’s total freedom, perhaps Isabela wouldn’t completely hate her. 

“What did he say?”

***

Marian was at a loss. She hadn’t gone looking for Isabela since Merrill’s ritual, but she hadn’t expected the pirate to be this hard to find. The last thing she wanted to do was take charge of the hunt for the relic—Isabela deserved to know the information Marian had received. The hard part was finding her to tell her.

The Hanged Man had been a dead end, though Isabela still had a room there—mainly because Marian had paid it up through the end of the year after Isabela had been confessed, out of guilt and perhaps a small hope that Isabela would be herself again in time to make use of it. She’d tried the docks, as well, even though Isabela tended to avoid them due to their proximity to the Qunari compound. She’d looked all over the city, and found not a single trace of Isabela. 

Which was why she was here, at the home of the only person whose aversion to seeing her might rival Isabela’s. She didn’t have time for nerves, though; when her knock predictably went unanswered, Marian pushed open the door to the old, decrepit estate, stepping over shattered clay pots and the splintered pieces of what used to be chairs. Cleaning up had clearly not been a favorite hobby—Marian was certain this rubble was still left over from when they’d reclaimed the estate in the first place.

Fenris was up in the master bedroom, as she’d expected. He held a wine bottle poised at his lips, but lowered it when he saw her enter. 

“Hawke,” he said neutrally, remaining in his seat by the fire. 

Marian kept her distance, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “I know you probably never want to come near me again,” she said, crossing her arms over her stomach. “I just…I know you and Isabela have been close. Have you seen her at all?”

He eyed her for a moment, as if trying to ascertain her intentions. “Not in weeks,” he finally said. 

It was the truth. Marian sighed. She didn’t know where else to look; if Isabela was still in Kirkwall, she was bringing new meaning to the term “laying low”. “It was worth a shot, I suppose,” she said with a shrug. “Thanks for not throwing me right out.” 

Marian turned, but before she could make it out the door, she was stopped by Fenris’s voice calling her name. She turned around, confused.

“I owe you an apology,” Fenris said, setting the wine bottle down on the floor and resting his elbows on his knees. “I did not respond in the best of ways when you told me of your…unique ability.” 

That was an understatement. She’d hardly gotten finished explaining before he’d glanced at Isabela, then back to her in disgust, turning on his heel and storming out of her house. Still, it could have been worse—at least they hadn’t come to blows over it.

“It was hardly the best of circumstances,” Marian replied. 

Fenris hesitated. “It is difficult to fully understand, yet I would believe it even if I had not seen the evidence firsthand,” he explained. “I, too, am a creation of the magisters. Like you, I possess a power that requires constant restraint and vigilance.” He sighed, pressing the tips of his fingers together before looking up. “My response was not due to what you are. Rather, it forced me to confront a darkness in myself that I had long taken for granted. It has taken me some time to make peace with that, and for that I apologize. You have gladly given me aid whenever I have asked for it, and never have you insisted on receiving anything in return.” 

“You’ve helped me, too,” Marian pointed out.

“But you have always left the choice to me,” Fenris countered. “The ability to say no is a luxury I was not afforded for much of my life. In the years I have known you, you have done your best to ensure that everyone is provided that opportunity.”

“Free will is rather important to me,” Marian said. 

“I can see why,” he replied simply. “You are a good person, Hawke. I cannot fault you for a possessing a power you did not ask for.”

Marian raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you might want to review your thoughts on mages, then,” she said with a wry smile.

His lips twitched with the hint of a smirk. “Perhaps.”

“I should go,” Marian sighed. “If you do see Isabela…” She paused, deliberating. “Just tell her that I’m sorry.” 

She would just have to track down the relic on her own, and hope that Isabela could be found once she’d recovered it.


	13. Chapter 13

After hearing Isabela talk about the relic for all those years, Marian had expected something more…impressive. It was a very heavy book, to be sure, but it was still just…a book. Old and weathered, with yellowed parchment pages and a thick leather binding. 

“It’s definitely Qunari,” Fenris confirmed. “That marking there is the symbol of the Qun.” He pointed to a stylized triangle stamped into the front of the book. “The body, the mind, and the soul, all interconnected, all depending on one another for survival.” At Marian’s inquisitive look, he shifted uncomfortably. “I spent some time in Seheron,” he said simply.

Recovering the tome had proved to be almost too easy. With the help of her contact, Marian had discovered that Wall-Eyed Sam had gotten his hands on it, and was planning to sell it to Tevinter magisters. Varric and Fenris agreed to come along to help her retrieve the book, but they’d taken just a little too long to get there—which had been quite serendipitous. The Qunari had also learned of the exchange and attacked the magisters, while Sam had fled in the ensuing chaos. 

Marian had caught him on his way out of the Lowtown foundry where the exchange was meant to take place. He’d still had the tome on him when he fled, so the only blood Marian had been forced to spill was his own, when he refused to part with the book. 

“Whatever it is, Castillon’s willing to kill for it,” Marian said with a shrug, tucking the book into the satchel she’d brought along. “All I care about is making sure it’s not Isabela who dies.”

“If we can find her,” Varric said, tucking Bianca back over his shoulder. Then he paused. “Does anyone else smell smoke?”

Before Marian or Fenris could respond, an armored figure rushed toward them. “Hawke!” Aveline called, panting as she braced herself against the stone archway. “There you are.”

“What’s going on, Aveline?” Marian looked past her, seeing light flicker against the buildings in a way that could only mean one thing: fire. 

“The Qunari are attacking the city—and fast,” Aveline replied, wiping sweat from her brow. Blood stained the front of her armor. “The Arishok planned this for who knows how long.”

Marian frowned. “They’ve been in Kirkwall for years. Why attack now?”

“Too many reasons,” Aveline said, shaking her head. “They hate the way we run things, but they won’t leave without some flaming book of theirs that got stolen years back. They’re taking it upon themselves to bring about new leadership—namely, theirs.”

“A book?” Marian’s heart pounded as she clutched at the strap of her satchel. “Why would a book be enough to start a war over?”

Aveline’s eyes narrowed. “The Arishok claimed it was some sacred thing, written by one of their philosophers. I hardly see how it matters, unless you magically know where to find it.”

Varric and Fenris pinned Marian with their stares, waiting for her to speak. “I…I might have it,” she admitted. “We only just recovered it, and I had no idea it was so important,” she finished quickly.

“Why would you even be—” Aveline stopped, bringing a hand to her eyes. “Isabela. Leave it to her to piss off the Qunari and start a bloody civil war.” 

“It could save Isabela’s life, Aveline,” Marian said, holding the satchel close.

“In exchange for letting Kirkwall burn?” Aveline countered. “Hawke, you’re better than that.” 

Marian knew Aveline was right, but she was torn. “I owe her so much more than this,” she said weakly. “After what I did to her, it’s the least I can do.”

Aveline sighed. “You don’t even know if she’s still in Kirkwall—and this could save a lot more lives than just hers.” 

“You’re right,” Marian conceded, guilt clawing at her chest. She could never make things right with Isabela anyway. “I know you are. Do you know where we can find the Arishok?”

“My guess is he’s on his way to the Viscount’s Keep,” Aveline said, flexing her hand around the hilt of her sword. “It’s the seat of power in Kirkwall—that’s where I’d go.”

“Then we’ll follow,” Marian said, glancing to Varric and Fenris. “Let’s hope it’s not too late to stop this.”

***

Getting to the Keep proved more difficult than Marian had thought. Between the looters, the Qunari and their elven converts, and the flaming debris blocking off every other path, it was a wonder they’d even made it up the stairs to Hightown at all. Somehow, they had managed to fight their way to the courtyard in front of Marian’s estate; nearby were the stairs leading up to the Viscount’s Keep.

It wouldn’t be easy to get there, though. No sooner had they set foot in the square than another wave of Qunari attacked. There were more of them this time—a lot more. They’d seen Qunari soldiers dragging people toward the Keep; this was where their numbers were the most concentrated. 

Marian and her friends were fighting hard, but there were only four of them, against a never-ending onslaught of Qunari. She was beginning to tire herself, and she was only wielding daggers; she couldn’t imagine how Aveline or Fenris were still lifting their swords. As for Varric, well…Bianca was an extraordinary weapon, but his quiver was anything but magical—he’d run out of ammunition sooner or later. Something had to give.

In the midst of the battle, Marian became aware of bolts of energy flying past—not the same electricity attacks they’d been fending off from the Qunari’s mages, but fire and ice and pure magical power. It would seem that the Circle mages had been let out to join the battle. 

The mages made all the difference, but at a heavy price. When the last of the Qunari fell, Marian looked around to see the courtyard littered with bodies. She moved to the first one she saw moving, a slender gray-haired elf in dark robes. He gladly took the hand she offered to help him up.

“Many thanks, my friend.”

It was odd to see him in person. Marian had met First Enchanter Orsino before, but only in Feynriel’s dream in the Fade. Now he stood before her, brushing the dirt from his robes and studying her face. 

“Hawke, isn’t it?” Orsino said as recognition finally set in. “I’ve seen you visiting the Gallows. You’re Bethany’s sister.” 

“The one and only,” Marian replied with a forced smile. “Are you all right? You don’t seem as badly injured as the others.”

“The others!” Orsino gasped, looking around the square. “Surely they cannot all be—” he stopped abruptly, his eyes falling on a form Marian recognized all too well. “Andraste’s grace!”

Marian felt a sick churning in her stomach as Orsino fell to his knees at her sister’s side. Healing magic emanated from his hands, surrounding Bethany’s still form, and Marian held her breath as she waited. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Bethany moaned.

“Bethany!” Marian cried, rushing to pull her sister into her arms. Bethany clung to her, struggling to catch her breath.

“What were you thinking, child?” Orsino chided. “I told you to let them take me!” 

“We had to do something,” Bethany said weakly. She pulled away, looking up at Marian almost apologetically—they both knew this had been her opportunity to escape the Circle. “We couldn’t just…”

Marian smiled, shaking her head a little. “I’m not the only one with a hero complex in this family,” she teased. Bethany’s answering smile filled her with warmth. There had been a moment, just then, that she’d been afraid—well, she didn’t think she could bear losing any more family. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Bethany tensed. “The city’s under attack,” she said, suppressing a shudder. “None of us are safe.”

“First Enchanter Orsino.” The commanding voice drew the attention of everyone present; they watched as the armored woman approached with a detachment of templars close behind. A look of disdain twisted her features. “You survive.”

Marian had met Knight-Commander Meredith just moments ago, when they’d fought their way up from Lowtown. The templar had helped her to defeat a Saarebas, and greeted her brusquely afterward. She had an aura of cold fury, her blue eyes like ice piercing to the bone. Marian wasn’t fond of templars as a general rule, but this one flat-out terrified her.

It was a fear that Orsino clearly didn’t share.“Your relief overwhelms me, Knight-Commander,” he said scathingly.

Meredith ignored his attempted jab. “There is no time for talk. We must strike back, before it’s too late.”

Orsino scoffed. “And who will lead us into this battle? You?”

Righteous fury lit up the Knight-Commander’s face as she stepped toward the First Enchanter. “I will fight to defend this city, as I’ve always done!”

“To control it, you mean!” Orsino shot back. “I won’t have our lives tossed to the flames to feed your vanity!”

“That’s enough!” Marian shouted, surprising herself most of all as she stepped up between the two adversaries. “There’s no need for any more lives to be lost.”

Meredith gave her a patronizing glance. “Serah Hawke, I have no doubt you mean well, but the Qunari have left us no choice—”

“The Qunari,” Marian interrupted, “are only here because they need something. They can’t return home without it.”

“And I suppose you know exactly what it is, and where to find it?” Meredith challenged.

Raising an eyebrow, Marian let the strap of her satchel fall to her hand, holding it up with a smirk. “You could say that.”

The look of utter disbelief on the Knight-Commander’s face was a thing of beauty. Marian may have been terrified of the woman, but it was certainly fun throwing her off balance.

“Sister, I thought you were supposed to be keeping _out_ of trouble,” Bethany chided. 

Marian shrugged. “It’s a long story.” She turned her attention back to Meredith and Orsino. “Are you ready to listen to me now?”

***

Blood thrummed in her ears as Marian slowly approached the steps to the Viscount’s Keep. Her palms itched with the desire to draw her daggers, but she knew better. The only way the Qunari would refrain from attacking on sight was if they appeared to be surrendering.

Aveline had liked the idea about as much as Marian. Walking into the heart of enemy lines without a ready means of fighting back went against everything a soldier was taught. Of course, Marian did have other ways of defending herself—she just hoped it wouldn’t come to that. 

Nearly a dozen Qunari guarded the entrance to the Keep. One of them stepped forward, watching their approach through the slits in his helmet. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he held out his hand. “No further.” Marian complied, coming to a stop and nodding to her companions to do the same. “You are brave, basra, to approach with your weapons unready.”

Marian wanted to make a crack about how it seemed safer than coming at them with naked blades, but Fenris had warned her that her usual brand of sarcasm wouldn’t be appreciated. “It’s not courage,” she called out instead, keeping her voice neutral and non-threatening. “It’s respect. I must speak with your Arishok. I know what he has been looking for—the reason you can’t leave Kirkwall. I know how he can get it back.”

The Qunari cocked his head, his hand flexing around his spear as he considered what she had said. “There is only one way you could know this,” he finally said. “And that is if you are the thief who stole it in the first place.”

Panic rushed through her veins. “That’s not the only way, I assure you,” she said. “But either way, I expect your Arishok would want to talk to me himself.”

A terse nod was the Qunari’s reply; then he gestured to his men, and they descended the steps to take Marian and her friends into custody. Marian only hoped they wouldn’t check under Varric’s coat.

***

“Shanedan, Hawke,” the Arishok said gruffly, slowly descending the stairs from the Viscount’s seat. Blood ran down past his feet, and Marian choked back a gasp when she saw the source. A headless body lay at the top of the stairs. Down below, just a few paces from her own feet, lay the blank, unseeing eyes of the—former—Viscount of Kirkwall. “I expected you.”

“Arishok.” The Qunari who had greeted them outside released Marian’s right arm, stepping toward his leader. “This bas claims to have knowledge of the Tome of Koslun.”

“Is that so?” The Arishok’s eyes narrowed on Marian as he stepped down farther. “And what is this knowledge you claim to have?”

Marian shrugged. “Only that I know where it is. I’ll tell you, if you give me your word that you will leave Kirkwall without harming any more of its citizens.” 

“You are a curious person, Serah Hawke.” The Arishok almost looked ready to crack a small smile. “You do not claim loyalty to these people, yet you would lay down your life for them.”

“What can I say?” Marian said, glancing toward Varric with a smirk. “I’m a real tragic hero type.” Her tone hardened as she looked back at the Arishok. “Do we have a deal?”

“The only reason we have not left your wretched city is that we cannot return to Par Vollen without the tome,” the Arishok replied. “With it, we have no reason to stay.” 

Heart pounding, Marian nodded. “All right, then. Varric?” 

Varric looked up at his two captors, who reluctantly released his arms. His hands went to his waist, unclasping the strap of Marian’s satchel and pulling it around to his front. Marian took it from him, reaching inside and pulling out the book. 

“The Tome of Koslun.” The Arishok took it with a suspicious frown—he didn’t look at all like he was prepared to honor his side of the agreement. “How convenient,” he snarled, looking up at Marian with fire in his eyes. “Just as you learn that we are serious in our threats, the Tome shows up in your hands. It does not take the wisdom of Koslun to know a thief.”

Marian tensed, wishing they hadn’t let the Qunari confiscate their weapons. This was supposed to be easy—give the book to the Arishok, watch them sail away into the sunset, then go home for a cup of tea. It didn’t appear that it would be quite so simple—in fact, Marian wasn’t sure she would survive this encounter.

Before she could come up with an argument, the doors to the throne room swung open. “She’s not the thief—I am.”

Marian whirled around, her breath catching in her throat as she watched Isabela stride into the room. “Isabela—”

Amber eyes met hers for a split-second before flitting away. “I stole your silly book, not Hawke. She’s just the goody-two-shoes that stole it back for you.” 

“Is this true?” The Arishok’s gaze shifted back to Marian.

“For the most part,” Marian admitted, unable to take her eyes off of Isabela.

“What?” Isabela said uneasily, not quite meeting Marian’s gaze. “I couldn’t let you take credit for all of my hard work.” 

The Arishok nodded. “Very well. My apologies, Hawke,” he said, before standing back to address the room. “The relic has been reclaimed. I am free to return to Par Vollen—with the thief.”

“ _What_?” Isabela’s eyes widened.

“That wasn’t part of our deal,” Marian protested.

“She stole the Tome of Koslun. She must return with us.” The Arishok spoke as though it were a given.

Marian stepped forward, her voice hardening. “You have your relic. She stays here.”

Varric chuckled behind her. “I’m sure he’ll take that well,” he cracked. “Rivaini, you might want to move a bit this way.” 

The Arishok shook his head. “You leave me no choice. I challenge you, Hawke. You and I will battle to the death, with her as the prize.”

“I’m your thief,” Isabela insisted, stepping around Marian. “If you’re going to duel anyone, duel me!”

“You are not basalit-an,” the Arishok sneered. “You are unworthy.” 

Isabela scoffed, ready to rush forward and attack him anyway, but Marian reached out to stop her. “Isabela, don’t,” she said, her heart jumping in her chest when Isabela turned sharply to look at her, pulling her arm back as if burned. “I won’t let them take you.” She wouldn’t let Isabela’s freedom be taken from her again—she’d die first.

“I fight my own battles,” Isabela said stubbornly, taking a step away from her. “I don’t need protecting.” 

It hurt to see Isabela so eager to back away from her, but Marian swallowed back the pain. “You heard him. He won’t fight you. If I don’t do this, you’ll suffer a lot worse than a blow to your pride.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Isabela huffed. "Fine." 

Marian turned back to the Arishok. “All right. Let’s dance.”

The Arishok inhaled deeply, calling out to the entire room. “Meravas! So shall it be!”

***

Sweat dripped down her face—or maybe it was blood. Her pulse was racing, her breath coming in quick shallow pants. Marian was starting to question the wisdom of her decision. She’d barely scratched the Arishok with her daggers, and dodging the swings of his heavy sword and axe was getting more difficult by the second. Duels weren’t really her thing—never had been.

She was still alive, though, that was something. She adjusted her grip on her daggers, readying herself to duck his next blow. Her blade skated across his ribs, opening a shallow cut along his chest, but he didn’t falter, spinning around to charge at her again.

This time, she didn’t duck soon enough, and one of his blades made contact with her thigh. She fell to one knee as the pain ripped through her, hot and sharp. It was enough of a distraction for him to knock one of her daggers from her hand, sending it skittering across the tile floor out of reach. She clung to her remaining blade, swiping at the Arishok’s calf. His axe swung down, and she rolled out of the way just in time. 

Trying to stand proved unwise. The blow to her leg had nicked something vital, because her muscles refused to obey. This was it, then; this was the end. Marian glanced quickly over where Isabela stood watching, an unreadable expression on her face. At least she had tried. She hoped Isabela might forgive her one day. 

Then, something miraculous happened. The Arishok stumbled, slipping a little in the growing pool of Marian’s blood. He fell to one knee in front of her, one weapon clattering to the ground as he steadied himself with that hand. The other continued to swing his sword at her, but she parried with her remaining dagger. For a few seconds, they were at a stalemate. 

Until Marian remembered her last remaining weapon, the one the Arishok couldn’t take away from her. Before she could second-guess herself, Marian reached for his throat with her free hand, closing around the silvery skin and holding tight. It took no effort at all—simply a relaxation of the restraint that was second nature to her. All at once, her power rushed through her and the Arishok’s eyes turned black. 

Marian shook her head to clear it as his eyes began to return to normal. Before he could say a word, she sliced her remaining dagger across his throat. He hit the ground with a loud thud, bleeding out onto the tiles. 

The room erupted in chaos—cheers from the nobility, loud barked orders from the remaining Qunari—but Marian didn’t hear any of it. The only thing worthy of her focus was Isabela, standing and staring in disbelief. She’d never gotten the chance to explain to Isabela how her powers worked, or where they came from, or any of that—she’d been too focused on how to cope with what had happened. Somehow, though, the look in Isabela’s eyes said that she knew exactly what Marian had just done. While the Qunari filed out of the room, and the nobles hugged and fussed over one another, Marian watched as Isabela shook her head, backing around the edge of the room and disappearing out the door.

Before Marian could even think about trying to follow, Knight-Commander Meredith swept into the room. “Is it…over?” She looked around at the carnage, taking in the Viscount’s dead body, and that of the Arishok, finally settling her gaze on Marian.

“It’s over,” Marian confirmed, wincing as she pressed her hand to the wound on her thigh. 

Meredith eyed the Arishok’s body once more. “Well done,” she said, her expression betraying her suspicion. When she spoke again, her voice was as much threat as it was praise. “It appears Kirkwall has a new champion.”


End file.
